


Days of Awe

by TEP Redux (tepredux)



Category: South Park
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3657021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tepredux/pseuds/TEP%20Redux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's his thirteenth birthday, and Kyle is finally becoming a man. As the excitement wears away, he realizes he's not like the other boys in South Park, and not just because he's Jewish. As Kyle comes to terms with his sexuality, he struggles with who he can trust and where he will find love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Shabbat

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! 
> 
> It seems that Kyle has become my new muse. I wasn’t originally intending to write three stories in a row that focus on him, but it’s okay because Kyle is awesome. This serial will focus on his coming of age, and I will use the Jewish aspects of his identity as a backdrop and framing device for the story. This chapter is relatively short, as it is just a prologue; the real “meat” of the story will begin in the next installment.
> 
> Happy readings!  
> TEPR

Thirteen years, and it’s finally happening: I am a man. Or, rather, I will be in a little while. I’m not nervous. I swear.

I mean, there is kind of a lot of pressure on me right now. What if I let my parents down? Or my little brother? What if I become the worst Jew ever? How could I live with myself?!

I should tell you: today is no ordinary _Shabbat_. It is my special day, my _bar mitzvah_. Don’t get me wrong: my birthday was awesome. I got lots of cool shit, as always, and my friends are definitely more into that than they are the Jewish stuff, but I can’t deny who I am. This is the part that means more to my family, and I have to honor that. As a Jew, this is an important time for me. It’s more than just “becoming a man”. Now I am responsible for my own actions to myself, to my family, and to God. I have reached the point in my life where I now have to answer for the deeds that I commit and the thoughts that I think.

My friends don’t understand. Cartman just makes stupid, immature jokes about me being a Jew (some things never change), and Kenny doesn’t bother to care. Not even Stan, my best friend in the whole world, understands how important this is to me. He said he might come to my _bar mitzvah_ if he could make it but that he wasn’t sure because “he might have plans” with Wendy. Might? Might?! I mean, what the fuck? It’s like, I’ve told you how important this is to me. How do you not get it?

Then again, Stan’s been weird lately. For the last few months, we haven’t hung out as much as we used to. I finally put my foot down and asked him a couple of weeks ago if I had done anything wrong, and he said _no_. He was so casual about it, I felt crazy even asking—like maybe I was reading too much into it. Something is going on, though. Honestly, I think his girlfriend is the source of all of this. It’s like he’s distracted all the time. It’s always Wendy this or Wendy that. I don’t think his brain thinks about anything else! I tried pointing that out to him recently, and he just laughed it off. It’s probably his hormones kicking in. I remember learning about it in health class. Stan probably doesn’t even remember learning about it because he was too busy thinking about Wendy!

I mean, I guess I wasn’t _completely_ paying attention, either. I kept drifting off when the teacher was talking—that normally never happens, I swear!—because I was distracted by some pictures in the textbook. They were… well, I don’t know what it was about them. I guess I was just intrigued by some of the words: _urethra_ , _vas deferens_ , _testicle_ , _penis_. And then I found myself reading some more of the chapter silently in class while the teacher was talking. I remember things like _sperm_ and _erection_ and _ejaculation_. Before I knew it, the class period was almost over, and I had missed the entire lecture. I wasn’t even paying any attention during the part where she talked about the female body. That’s going to be important for me to know, right?

Speaking of which… I feel like I need to learn more about that stuff. It’s embarrassing that I’m the smartest guy in our friend group, and I am the most clueless about girls and sex and stuff like that. It just seems kind of… gross, I guess. All the other guys are into it, but I’m not yet. Kenny and some of the others joke around, asking why I don’t have a girlfriend, and I always laugh about it with them, but the truth is… I don’t know. I’m just not interested in girls right now. I don’t see in them what the other guys do. I remember how Stan used to blush whenever one of the guys joked and asked why he hadn’t had sex with Wendy yet. He would look really embarrassed and then look to me for support because I was the only one who didn’t tease him about it. But it’s not like that anymore. Something’s different about him. Something’s changed. I think he _does_ want to have sex with her now, and maybe that’s why he doesn’t want to hang out with me anymore. And that sucks, dude. I mean, I’ve been his best friend forever, and she’s just some girl!

Sorry… I got sidetracked. I’m supposed to be telling you about _me_ , not Stan and his dumb girlfriend—Stan who probably couldn’t even tell you why my _bar mitzvah_ is so important to me. My mom says that’s part of the problem with South Park: nobody understands Jewish culture. I mean, I guess there are a few Jewish families around here, but not very many if you think about how big our town is. The only other Jewish kid I know all that well is Ethan Saperstein. He’s a couple of years older than I am, so we don’t hang out or anything. I do remember once during marching band rehearsal, he took off his shirt because he was sweaty from his soccer practice on the same field. I remember very distinctly that he had a little bit of hair around his belly button. Somehow I had gotten distracted when I saw him and walked right into the person marching in front of me. Now _that_ was embarrassing!

Anyway... back to my story. My _bar mitzvah_ is coming at a special time because my birthday falls not long before the Ten Days of Repentance, or Days of Awe. This is a very important time for my people; it starts with _Rosh Hashanah_ , the Jewish New Year, and concludes with _Yom Kippur_ , the holiest day of the year. _Yom Kippur_ is also called the Day of Atonement, and this will be my first year observing it as a Jewish man: I will fast and pray and do all of the other things that a proper Jewish man does. Unlike my friends, I am ready to handle the responsibilities of adult life. It’s time I showed the world that I’m not just some immature kid who spends all day goofing off and thinking about girls. It is time for what I have been waiting for: time for me to become a man.


	2. Rosh Hashanah & Day 1

Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod—shit!

Sorry. I’m freaking out a little bit right now. I have realized something very bad, and it is the worst possible time for this to be happening. Tomorrow is _Rosh Hashanah_ , the first of the High Holy Days, and I can barely even remember what it is I’m supposed to be doing or feeling right now. Deep breaths, Kyle. Deep breaths.

Let’s try this again. Tomorrow is _Rosh Hashanah_ —or the Jewish New Year, to the _goyim_ among you—a time of celebration and reflection and realizing that you like boys. Shit! I didn’t mean to say that. But I guess the cat’s out of the bag now. My name is Kyle Broflovski. I am a Jew and probably also gay.

Okay, more than _probably_. I have never liked girls and only like boys and—there, I said it. But maybe there’s a chance I can like girls, right? I mean, there only has to be one. There are seven billion people on this planet, and like half of them are girls. Surely there’s _one_ of them I’ll like. All I have to do is find her and then marry her and have babies with her, and everything will be normal and fine. Right?

Shit. This is bad.                

* * *

 

“ _Shanah tovah_ , Kyle.”

“ _Shanah tovah_ , Aunt Aviva.”

“Oh, and _mazel tov_ on your _bar mitzvah_. It was very lovely.”

“Thanks.” I flush red with embarrassment, though I know I would be an even deeper shade of crimson if my mind weren’t preoccupied with… other things. Stan always used to poke fun at me when we were kids because it was really easy to tell when I was embarrassed. He’d never fail to point out that my cheeks matched my hair whenever it happened, and he found that hilarious for some reason.

At least right now I can attempt to focus on other things. Today is supposed to be a time for my people to reflect on the year that has passed and look forward to the new year to come. When I think of what’s to come, I just want to vomit. I thought I was ready to become a man and that I knew what I wanted, but now I think I’ve never been so unsure in my life. I don’t know who I am or what I am or what I’m supposed to be. Even as I sit here with my family—cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents, from Denver, Phoenix, San Francisco, Portland—I’m surrounded by people, yet I have never felt so alone.

“ _Mazel tov_ , Kyle!” I feel a large hand slap me on my back. “Sorry we couldn’t fly down for your _bar mitzvah_.”

I retract a bit from the sting of his hand. “It’s okay, Uncle Isaac. It’s no big deal.”

His eyes widen in mock horror. “No big deal?! Kyle, this is the most important time of your life. You’re a man now. You know what that means, don’t you?” He lowers his voice and leans in. “Jewish law says you can get married now. Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Oh, Isaac, stop it!” My mother slaps her older brother on the back, laughing. My father trails behind her. “Don’t go putting any crazy ideas in his head. Kyle’s only thirteen. Girls are the last thing on his mind. Isn’t that right, _bubby_?”

Mom, you have no idea.

I laugh. “I don’t have time for girls right now. My studies are what’s most important. I can worry about dating later.”

I see my father’s pride swell up. “Attaboy, Kyle. Then you can follow in your old man’s footsteps.”

I laugh hesitantly at that. Telling my father I don’t want to be a lawyer is a bridge I’ll have to cross another day. I think that one existential crisis is enough for right now. What I want to be when I grow up can wait until after I figure out this gay thing.

* * *

 

Well, I survived _Rosh Hashanah_. Now that the Jewish New Year is over, the Ten Days of Repentance have begun, and today is Day 1. I’ve never thought much about the idea of repentance before now. I don’t think I’m a bad person or anything, but I definitely feel like there are things for which I should ask God for forgiveness.

My stomach sinks as I think about the thing that keeps hanging over my head, the thing that I can’t shake. I feel sick when I dwell on it for too long: should I repent for liking boys? I mean, it’s not like I chose to be this way. It doesn’t seem fair, but then I guess we all have things we go through, things that tempt us. I just wonder why God would put me through something like this. All I want is to be normal and happy, and that seems impossible if I have to hide this part of who I am.

I try to shake the thought and think about happier things, like the party. Oh—I completely forgot to tell you about the party! I had been really nervous about asking my parents if I could go to this party since there will be no adult supervision—not to mention that it is the day after _Rosh Hashanah_ —but they were surprisingly cool with it.

“Oh, _bubby_ , it’s fine. We trust Stanley. He’s a perfectly responsible young man,” my mother had casually replied, all but dismissing the clear nervousness in my voice.

My father had bit his bottom lip, not entirely sure, but nodded in affirmation after a moment of deliberation. “I know Randy and Sharon would kill him if he threw some kind of wild party. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

I took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah, it’s probably just gonna be a few of us hanging out, anyway. Nothing crazy.”

“No girls, I hope?” my mother had asked, raising her voice.

“Well… I mean, there probably will be, but you have nothing to worry about. I swear.”

At that, she and my father had exchanged a quick, cryptic glance but then smiled.

“Of course, _bubby_. We trust you.”

And so here I am on my way to this party at Stan’s. It’s kind of crazy how cool and accepting my parents were. I guess they just really trust me. The funny part is that Stan’s parents left his sister Shelly in charge when they had gone out of town this week for their anniversary. Shelly had slipped away to her boyfriend’s in Denver the moment they were on the plane, though, not giving two shits what Stan did—or how he fended for himself—while she was away. She had been gracious enough to leave him half of the five hundred dollars their parents left behind “in case of emergency”. Truthfully, Stan probably should have saved most of the money for food, but if I know Stan, he probably would blow it all on the party. I love my best friend, but he can be really irresponsible sometimes. I tell you, it’s his hormones.

Speaking of which—ugh—I’m sure Wendy will be there tonight. I don’t even know why I’m going to the party, honestly. I really just want to hang out with Stan like we used to, but he’ll probably be preoccupied most of the night doing God-knows-what with his girlfriend. Double ugh.

At least some of my other friends will be there. Other than at school, I haven’t seen Kenny or Fat Ass or any of those other guys in a while, either, come to think of it.

As I walk up the driveway to Stan’s house, I take a deep breath. I admit I lied to my parents’ earlier: I know Stan invited pretty much everyone we know to this party, and it will most certainly not just be “a few of us hanging out” like I told them. I feel like shit for a second but then disregard my guilt. After all, I have ten days of repentance to get through, so there will be plenty of time to ask God for forgiveness.

Okay, here I go. It’s time to ring the doorbell. Before I do, I close my eyes and imagine everyone who will be there. My mind keeps returning to one face, in particular. I suppose I should have told you before I got to the party: I have a crush on someone, and it’s making me crazy the more I think about it. _Mazel tov_.

* * *

 

The party is everything I expected and so much more. I am incredibly nervous and excited that there is alcohol. How could Stan not have told me that there would be booze?! A part of me knows that my parents would kill me if they found out I was at a party where people were drinking, but another part of me—the part that seems to be winning tonight—really likes it. It makes me feel more grown up, in a weird way.

The first person to greet me is Fat Ass. It’s funny: we never stopped calling him that. Eric Cartman went through a transformation last year. I’m not sure what spurred him on, but overnight he went from unhealthy slob to health nut. He began to eat much better and started getting active. I remember when I had noticed a few days into his “routine” (as he now calls it) that something was different, and he had been surprisingly meek about sharing his new fitness goals. Honestly, I think admitting that he had a weight problem and trying to tackle it head-on, as smart a move as it turned out to be, had initially meant owning up to a weakness, something that we all know does not come very naturally for Eric Cartman. Of course, when he saw that we had his back, his confidence boosted, and he evolved from jogging to running to playing tennis for the middle school this year. As a result, he has really slimmed down and even packed on a bit of muscle. I hate to admit it, but he’s almost kind of sexy. Despite that, I don’t think I’ll ever let go of my childhood nickname for him. It’s just too much fun. Besides, I’m not the only one who refuses to let go of my past impulses.

“What’s happening, Jew?” he asks casually as I enter. I can see that he’s sipping something out of a red plastic cup.

“Not much, Fat Ass,” I say, cautiously eyeing his drink. Obviously this is what he wanted.

“Ah yes, I see you are interested in what’s in my cup. Let’s see… should I give Kyle a sip of my drink or not?”

“Fuck you. I don’t want to share your beverage.”

“You’re not even a little bit curious as to what it is?”

For some reason—maybe it’s my frustration over all these identity issues I’m having—I am in even less of a mood than usual for Fat Ass’ antics, so I grab the cup and take a swig. Talk about a mistake.

“Ah! What the fuck is it?!” I ask, almost spitting some up. “It’s really bitter.”

He grins and sips some. “It’s hunch punch, dude. You gotta get some of your own.”

“What the hell is in it?” I ask.

He shrugs and tosses back another gulp. I can see that his eyes are getting a little bit glazed over, and I realize that for the first time in my life, I am seeing a drunk person. I quash the urge to freak out and reassure myself that my parents won’t be randomly dropping in to spy on us, though it’s not something that’s completely out of the question. I shake the thought away. Happy thoughts, Kyle. Happy thoughts.

I leave Cartman in the foyer and wander into the kitchen, curious about the hunch punch. All of my questions fade away when I see who’s manning the island.

“Kyle, you’re here!” It’s an unusually excited Kenny.

“Are you the one who got Fat Ass wasted?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “I found a bottle of Everclear in Stan’s parents’ liquor cabinet. This shit is 95% alcohol, Kyle! It’s like heaven in a bottle.”

“Jesus, dude,” I say, not completely understanding the extent of what _95% alcohol_ means but also not wanting to look like a clueless dork. “So it’s in this punch?” I ask, peering into a crystal bowl that’s filled with a bright and murky red concoction.

“Yeah,” he says casually. “It’s 20% Everclear, 80% Hawaiian Punch.”

“Oh,” I say, nervous. “Do you have any that’s weaker?” I don’t want to get as drunk as Fat Ass.”

Kenny laughs. “I gave him a doctored version. That asshole said that what I made was too weak. He doesn’t know shit about what he’s saying, so I gave him a taste of his own medicine. His is half and half. Try this,” he says, handing me a cup.

I drink some cautiously. It’s still kinda bitter but not nearly as bad as what Cartman was drinking.

Seeing that I haven’t spit it out yet, Kenny grins. “Now, go have some fun,” he says, shooing me out of the kitchen. As I begin to leave, he adds, “Oh, and if you see Red, send her my way. I have a little of that doctored stuff I want to give her, too,” he says, winking.

I groan as I leave the kitchen. This is going to be one of _those_ parties.

* * *

 

The evening wears on in a surprisingly normal manner, at least at first. I think everyone’s acting a little weird because of the hunch punch, though. Or maybe they’ve just had more of it than I have. I’m on my second glass, and I feel fine—just a little funny.

After I left the kitchen earlier, I ran into Stan, who seemed really fucked up. As soon as he spoke, I knew he had already had a lot of the punch.

“Hey, man. Where’s Wendy?” I had asked as casually as possible.

“She’s going to be late,” he replied, slightly slurring his words and clearly a bit annoyed. “I’ve been waiting for someone fun to show up, and now you’re here, so everything’s better!” He stumbled forward and grabbed me in a big bear hug. I couldn’t help but notice how tightly his arms squeezed me. Stan has a surprisingly strong grip, and I could feel his taut and compact frame pressing into me. It was no doubt just the alcohol causing him to behave so clumsily, but I can’t lie: it felt nice. Like, really nice. I very quickly realized that I was getting an erection and backed away quickly. Stan was too inebriated to notice, I think.

“Hey, why’d you move?” he asked, chuckling. Then, immediately switching gears: “We gotta find you a girl, Kyle. I know you always say you don’t want to get involved, but I bet we could find someone you’d like. We could even lie and tell your mom she’s Jewish!” At that he started laughing a bit too much, to the point that he fell backwards onto the couch and then just sort of sat there for a moment, staring ahead until he could steady himself to a standing position.

“I’m going to get some more to drink,” I mumble, wandering back into the kitchen. As I do, I do a double-take passing Clyde on the way out. I try to be subtle, but it’s not easy. He is just so damn hot. Funny enough, Clyde was actually the reason I realized I liked boys. He’s captain of the middle school football team—in seventh grade!—and I know that’s a cliché, but he is just so damn fine. Those muscles, that body. Sometimes it’s too much. He can be a bit of a distraction in gym class, I admit…

Anyway, I can’t glance too long at Clyde. First, I don’t want to be caught staring, and second, I don’t want that erection coming back. I haven’t told anyone that I like boys yet, and I’d rather it not happen tonight. I don’t think I’m ready yet.

As I top off my punch, I feel a hand rest gently on my shoulder.

“How’s that punch working out for you?” It’s Kenny, and I can tell he’s had a bit much of his own concoction.

“Everything’s cool,” I say, shrugging.

“Oh, really now?” he asks, snaking a hand around my hip.

My eyes go wide, and I jump back. “What the hell are you doing?!”

Kenny rolls his eyes. “Jesus, Kyle. Follow me.”

He steps through the kitchen door into the backyard. My feet carry me almost against my will: I follow him to the back of Stan’s father’s woodshed, far away from anyone else at the party. As we shuffle across the lawn, my mind is racing. What’s about to happen? Is Kenny going to kill me? Or rape me? Did he seriously just put his hand around my waist?!

When we arrive, he stops moving and lights a cigarette.

“Since when do you smoke?!” I ask, horrified.

He shrugs. “Since recent.” He blows a small cloud up into the night air.

There is silence for a moment. I am desperate to break it but have no idea what to say. Maybe it’s not too late for me to run back into the party and pretend that I never followed my friend outside. As if reading my mind, Kenny speaks up.

“Let’s talk about Clyde.”

My stomach drops to the ground. “I—umm…”

Kenny howls with laughter. “I knew it!”

“W-what? Knew what?”

“You have a thing for Clyde!”

“No, I don’t!” I shout-whisper at him. “And keep your voice down. Shit, Ken.”

“Yeah, whatever. I saw the way you were looking at him. You nearly walked right into the island, you were rubbernecking so hard. Don’t deny it.”

My face flushes crimson. Stan would have been able to spot it from a mile away if he were outside, and also not drunk. I struggle to speak. Finally, words begin to form coherently.

“I—don’t—just please don’t tell anyone else, okay?” I stammer quickly.

Kenny smiles and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Dude, your secret is safe with me. What do I care? I’m practically bisexual.”

I look at my friend, having difficulty comprehending the words that have just come out of his mouth. Kenny sees that I am not able to respond intelligibly and takes the opportunity to keep talking.

“Clyde’s a fucking cutie. You have any idea how many times I’ve stared at that hot piece of ass walking down the hallway?” He then makes a growling noise that is equally frightening and hilarious.

Though I am still in shock, it is relaxing and encouraging hearing Kenny talk like this. For the first time in days, I don’t feel crazy—or, for that matter, alone.

“You know,” he adds, taking another drag, “you’re pretty cute yourself.” At that I blush so hard I can feel my face warm up the rest of my body. Kenny doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m just putting it all out there,” he continues, wiggling his eyebrows in an over-the-top seductive manner. I can’t help but laugh at him.

We continue talking and laughing for what feels like hours but is probably only a matter of minutes. Kenny tells me about everyone in our class, girls and guys alike, who he’d like to sleep with—pretty much everybody in our class, come to think of it—and I am so comfortable and relaxed and happy that it’s almost hard for me to believe that I was freaking out so much on the way to the party. Inevitably, though, he turns the conversation to me. He asks me how long I’ve known I like guys (only a couple of weeks, really, though I think I’d been suppressing it for a few months before then), whether I like girls (I don’t think so, unfortunately), and who we know who I find attractive. I avoid the latter question, mostly, though I do slip up and mention I have a crush.

After beating around the bush for a while, he finally asks me directly, “So how long have you had a crush on Clyde?”

I pause, unsure how to respond. “Well—I—”

He sees through me immediately.

“Holy shit, it’s not Clyde! You have a crush on someone else!”

Cue me blushing again.

“Dude, you have to tell me. Come on!”

I pause and think about it. I’m not sure if it’s the hunch punch, or the fact that I am so comfortable in my skin around Kenny now, but I decide to tell him.

I take a deep breath. “You have to promise not to tell anyone…”

And then just like that, it’s over.


	3. Day 3

NOTE: This chapter is a bit different than the others so far. It takes place over the course of one day, and I used timestamps to help you sort everything out because I did not arrange the scenes in chronological order.

* * *

_  
9:08 AM, Math class_

It is still surreal when I think about it. All of yesterday passed in a giddy blur, with Kenny’s words of encouragement keeping me from thinking clearly about anything else. I was barely able to focus in my classes, and today doesn’t look like it will be any different. I don’t think I’ve soaked up any pre-algebra from Mrs. Rothschild this morning, and I’m just fine with that. Besides, I’m good at faking—not that she would ever assume I’m not paying attention. After all, I’m the best student in this class by a long shot. But enough about that.

Holy crap, I can’t believe this is really happening. Not only have I come out to a friend—well, he kinda forced it out of me, but still!—but he was totally cool with it, and now I have someone I can talk to about this stuff. It’s so awesome… but also kind of a pain in my ass. Since I stupidly told Kenny about my crush while I was drunk, he will not stop pestering me about it. All day yesterday, he kept messaging me, asking if I’d told him yet. Finally I stopped responding around fifth period because he was driving me crazy. I think he took the hint. I love Ken like a brother, but he’s kind of crazy, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he just told my crush that I like him. Holy shit, that’s terrifying to imagine! Happy thoughts, Kyle. Happy thoughts.

Anyway, I guess I should let you know: I’m thinking about telling him today. You know— _him_. I want to tell him how I feel, but ohmygod, it scares the shit out of me the more I think about it. What if he freaks out? What if he doesn’t like boys, and he thinks I’m sick? What if he does like boys, but he doesn’t like me? Oh, god. What if he likes boys and likes me too but he doesn’t _just_ like me and actually has really deep feelings and wants to get married? I’m only thirteen. I’m too young for that!

“Kyle!”

My mind snaps back to first period, and I meet the annoyed gaze of Mrs. Rothschild. “Care to share what’s on your mind? I know it’s not absolute value.”

I blush and shake my head. “Sorry. I was just daydreaming.” My teacher looks annoyed but continues to work the example problem on the board.

Absolute value… I wonder if he’ll be able to see _my_ absolute value if I tell him how I feel. Will he like me back? God, I can’t believe all of this. It’s happening too fast. I’m not ready to tell him. But maybe I am. What am I going to do? Shit.

* * *

 

_12:21 PM, Lunch_

“Gah, I don’t think I can handle it! It’s too much pressure!”

“Don’t be such a fucking lame ass. You’re the only person he wouldn’t suspect.”

Watching the skinny goth kid trying to convince Tweek to steal the answer key for our upcoming history test from Mr. Liverwort’s desk when he’s out of the room has been a painful way to spend the last seven minutes. For one thing, the plan is full of holes, not to mention that Tweek should never be the first person someone elects to complete a sneaky mission. If I had to guess, something like this would go over about as well as Fat Ass trying to squeeze into an extra-small shirt back when he was still a fat ass.

Of course, the mere thought of Cartman (as he is now, not as a fat ass) taking off his shirt gives me a semi, so I have to distract myself to make it go away. Vomit. Saggy grandma tits. Uncle Isaac wearing nothing but a _yarmulke_.

There we go: no more semi. Also, I should tell you before you think I’m some kind of pariah: I didn’t choose the likes of Tweek, the goths, and Kevin Stoley as my lunch mates. Because of an “incident of vandalism” that occurred earlier in the year—a couple of months ago, Craig spray painted a penis hat on a mural of our school mascot—all third period classes have been forced to sit together during lunch so that their teachers can monitor them. It’s pretty fucking lame, especially since none of my friends are in this awful history class.

I ask Mr. Liverwort if I can go to the restroom. The lingering mental image of shirtless Cartman sort of has me in the mood to rub one out, and I think I have time to do the deed before lunch is finished. Once there, I lock the stall door and get started. About a minute later, I hear the bathroom door open. Annoyed, I stop what I’m doing and become even more irritated when the person chooses a stall next to mine. Great, now I’ll never get to jerk off.

I hear a weird shuffling noise, and suddenly a head pops up under my stall from the side.

“Caught you red-handed, Broflovski!”

“Goddamnit!” I struggle to cover my groin as quickly as possible. Kenny chuckles as he scoots his body under the divider and into my stall. “What the fuck are you doing?!” I ask as he assumes a standing position in front of me. I cannot remember the last time I was this irritated or embarrassed.

“Sorry, but you forced me to do this. You wouldn’t return my messages, and since we don’t have any classes together, I knew you’d sneak off after school without talking to me.

Suddenly, my mind can barely process what is happening. I hear the bathroom door open, and my heart stops. I pull my feet up under me in a flash so that there aren’t two pairs of legs on the floor, otherwise it would look like some guy was getting a blowjob in the stall. The last thing I need right now is a sex scandal, especially right after my _bar mitzvah_.

Kenny bites his lip to keep from laughing and then starts whistling as though to drown out the sound of urinating. Thank god the mystery student pisses quickly and leaves without washing his hands. As soon as the door closes behind the other boy, I punch my friend lightly in the stomach.

“You idiot! We could have both been caught!”

He wiggles his eyebrows down at me. “I bet you would have liked that, you little exhibitionist.”

I stand to meet him at eye level.

Kenny laughs. “I’m sorry, man. I just gotta know when you’re gonna tell him. I’m dying here.”

I scoff. “Seriously?! _You’re_ dying? This is my life, Ken. This could be social suicide.”

He rolls his eyes at my melodramatic reply. “Or, you know, he could like you back, and you could have crazy freaky sex 24/7.”

I blush at the thought and quickly change the image in my mind so that I don’t pop a boner in the stall with my friend.

“Look, I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I promise that you’ll be the first to know when I tell him.”

Kenny’s eyes go wide. “You said _when_! You didn’t say _if_ ; you said _when_!” he shrieks.

I cover his mouth with my hand. “Fuck, keep your voice down,” I whisper.

He licks my palm, causing me to retract it in disgust. He grins maniacally.

“God, you’re so fucking weird,” I say before leaving to wash my hands.

* * *

 

_5:59 AM, Too damn early_

I roll over exactly sixteen seconds before my alarm clock goes off. It is the pressure of my erection against the soft mattress that rouses me. I realize that I have been dreaming about him, and I am sad that I woke up right when it was getting good.

When the alarm sounds, I groan and hit the snooze button. Maybe—just maybe—I can fall back asleep and it can be good again.

* * *

 

_11:48 PM, Too damn late_

My heart is still racing when I get Kenny’s message: _Are u awake_.

 _Yes_ , I reply.

A minute later: _Holy fucking shit, dude. He just called me, and he was freaking out. I guess you told him?_

 _Yeah_ is all I have the energy to muster in response.

Kenny calls me, and I don’t answer. I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want to talk to anyone.

* * *

 

_6:14 PM, Dinner_

“Is something bothering you, _bubby_?”

I smile weakly at my mom, realizing that my mind has wandered again. “No, everything’s fine,” I say. “School is just kind of stressful lately.”

“Well, you should know that your father and I love you no matter what, even if you make a _B_.”

My dad laughs at that, and under normal circumstances, I probably would have, too. I mean, please—as if I would ever make a _B_.

After a moment of silence, she adds, “You should know that you can tell us if anything actually is wrong, Kyle. We’re your parents, and we’ll understand.”

A part of me wants to say something, but I know it won’t be the truth, so I don’t bother.

My dad chimes in after swallowing a bite of leftover _challah_. “I know what’s wrong,” he says, with no expression on his face. He pauses and then grins slyly: “You’re worried now that you’re ‘all grown up’ it’s time for you to find a girlfriend. Well, don’t you worry about that, son. We won’t be bothering you about grandkids until after you’re finished with college.”

I force a chuckle and internally groan.

* * *

 

_3:52 PM, My bedroom_

Can I tell you a secret? I mean, I know I don’t know you that well, but I figure that since you already know one of my two big secrets, it won’t be the end of the world if I tell you the other. Plus, who the hell are you going to tell? It’s not like you actually know anyone in South Park personally.

Anyway, here goes: I’m not 100% sure that I believe that God exists. I know that is really fucked up, especially since I just had my _bar mitzvah_ , but it’s something I’ve considered for a while now. I mean, I don’t take the thought too seriously, but it’s there, you know? It had been on my mind a lot before I realized I like boys, and now _that’s_ pretty much the only thing I think about. Anyway, I know I’ll sort all of this out later. I just wanted to let you know what was up so that you wouldn’t be surprised by the conversation I’m about to have with my friend.

Eric Cartman is an atheist—the only person I know who identifies as such, in fact. Honestly, I think that’s part of what makes me find him sexy. Sure, his body is nice to look at, but he’s nothing out of the ordinary in that regard. I think it’s his intelligence and boldness that attract me most. (FYI: He’s not my crush, if that’s what you were thinking.) And that certainly helps since Cartman is the person I decide to tell (other than you, of course) about my second big secret.

“Well, good for you, Jew—or should I say, not-Jew.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m still a Jew, Fat Ass. I’m just not completely sure about it.” I hope to god (no pun intended) that he doesn’t make fun of me for being wishy-washy.

Instead, just the opposite happens. He smiles understandingly, and I feel comfortable enough to continue stumbling through my confession.

“I mean, I just have doubts, you know? It seems so ridiculous that there’s this dude in the sky who created the world in his own image. I mean, what about the internet? What about technology? If everyone is created in God’s image, then how did it take humans so long to come up with all of that stuff? If God is perfect and we are created in his image, then why didn’t we create all technology as soon as we were put on earth? Why did it take so long for humans to get so advanced? I just can’t wrap my head around it.”

“But Kyle, don’t Jews also believe that God is unknowable to us?”

Shit—to be such a stubborn, arrogant asshole, Cartman really does know a lot about religion. He probably knows more about religion that anyone I know… and he’s an atheist!

A part of me is embarrassed that my asshole friend is schooling me on Judaism, but another part is in awe of him. I could sit like this and talk with him about God and stuff for hours. And it feels like that’s what we do. Granted, we do get back on track and work on the science project that we have due Friday, but we also take a lot of detours. It’s weird: I don’t know that I’ve ever felt so comfortable around Eric Cartman before. In fact, I’m so comfortable that I completely let my guard down during one of our exchanges.

Me: “I mean, what about race? There are black people, white people, Asians, Latinos—what the hell is God? Is he multicolored?”

Him, sarcastically: “God is everything. He is all of us.”

Me, matching him: “No, Fat Ass. God’s obviously a Jew. Everyone knows that.”

He laughs at that before pondering whether God has a wife.

He says, “If I were God, I wouldn’t get married. I would just have a bunch of lady sex slaves at my disposal 24/7. Nothing but a buffet of titties and pussy, all to myself. Doesn’t that sound sweet?”

It is at this point that I say, without thinking at all, “Fucking gross.” My stomach drops through the floor—so hard and far and fast, in fact, that I feel it hit the earth’s core with a violent, resounding thud.

“Fuck you, asshole. What’s so gross about lady sex slaves?”

Under normal circumstances, ones in which I was not constantly on edge regarding my sexuality, I probably could have recovered from this gracefully. Unfortunately, that is not the case today. It is likely the combination of my skin (paler than usual), my gaping mouth (mortified), and my sudden stammer (giving Jimmy a run for his money) that tips Cartman off, and I can tell the moment that it registers for him.

“Oh my god, dude. Are you gay?!”

While I’m on a roll revealing personal information here, allow me to disclose that the last time Eric Cartman saw me cry, we were in the fifth grade. The fat little fucker had kicked me square in the balls for no good reason, and I had retaliated by beating the shit out of him.

Today, it is not only the source of my tears that is different but also the response with which they are met from my friend. It is largely a blur, but I remember that he apologizes, and so do I for some reason, and he hugs me and reassures me that there’s nothing wrong with me. He tells me that I am his friend and fuck my parents if they have a problem with it and fuck the kids at school if they do, too.

It is just what I need in this moment, and in retrospect I will be both delighted and amused that it happened this way. When, many laughs and tears later, I finally tell him who it is that I like, he pats me on the back like a brother. He smiles and tells me I am a goddamn lunatic.

* * *

 

_8:17 PM, His house_

I cannot be entirely sure what it is, precisely, that compels me to tell him tonight. If I had to guess, I would say it is the warm reception with which I have been met in accidentally coming out to both Kenny and Cartman during the last 48 hours. Granted, both of them later assured me that there is zero chance that he will feel the same way because, you know, he has a girlfriend is pretty much my best friend.

“Mom, I’m going to Stan’s,” I had shouted on my way out the door.

Her warm _Okay, bubby_ , had followed me, her gregarious voice echoing off the cold stone fences that peppered the neighbors’ yards as I strode.

When I had arrived at the Marsh residence, I had found its emptiness oddly inviting. Able to find my way through the cozy two-story house in pitch blackness if necessary, I had made my way up the stairs to Stan’s room, where the lone source of illumination shone like a beacon.

Then I am there at his doorway, and he is staring back at me, crying, and I wonder if he already knows. I shiver.

“What’s wrong, man?” I ask, casually as I can muster, a lump already forming in my throat.

He pats the spot on the floor beside him. It is not until I walk a bit into his room that I notice a couple of empty Bud cans on his other side, the rest of a six-pack sitting undisturbed in its plastic ring at his feet.

I sit beside him, visibly shaking myself, and he hands me a beer, staring blankly ahead. “Dude, Wendy fucking broke up with me,” he says.

In the next several minutes, he shares the details of the breakup, which mostly involve her sexual interest in Token. I have a feeling that the story is a bit one-sided, but it’s hard to say since I’m only half paying attention. I am so broadsided by Stan’s announcement that I am momentarily paralyzed, unable to offer anything more than a conciliatory nod or quiet monosyllable whenever he pauses.

This must become apparent after a while, since he finally asks, “Dude, are you even fucking listening to me?”

“Yes, sorry,” I say, stammering. “I promise I am.”

He sighs and swigs his beer. “You’re just like her. You never fucking listen to me anymore.”

At that I am offended and tell him that as a matter of fact, he’s the one who’s been absent, who’s neglected our friendship, that I can barely consider him my best friend anymore because of it.

My words clearly sting, and I am genuinely surprise at how much he is affected by them. He mumbles a few partially incoherent apologies before beginning to cry again. Finally, he sighs, defeated.

“You’re right, dude. I’ve been a fucking terrible friend.” I can tell that he means it. I assure him that he’s not a bad friend, that I spoke out of turn, that I care for him and love him. I realize as soon as I say it that the L-word slipped out naturally, and it hits me as hard as anything: I _do_ love him. How have I not seen it before? That’s the whole issue here. I’ve been frustrated with Stan because I’m in love with him. Whoa.

I hold him close and make him feel better. I assure him that this isn’t the end of the world and that everything will be okay. He thanks me and smiles at me in that encouraging, trusting, lovable Stan Marsh way. And maybe it’s the beer, but I know that I have to tell him right now before anything else is said. So I do.

He is mute, frozen. It is as though he has been transported elsewhere and only the shell of his body is left. I stare at him for several seconds before there is a flush of recognition and he is able to respond. His eyes begin to tear up, and I am finally able to take a breath. He reaches for the trash can and vomits.

“It’s the beer,” he says between heaves. And then, after he has washed out his mouth and I have mostly stopped crying, he tells me all the things I don’t want to hear but that are necessary in this moment. He is flattered but also—sorry—a little weirded out. Of course he loves me too, but not in that way. He is still and will always be my best friend, no matter what. It’s getting late, and this is all a bit much, and he needs some time to think, and maybe it would be a good idea if I went home now.

Achievement unlocked: first heartbreak.


	4. Days 5-6

You wanna know what sucks? Pain.

I’ve been in zombie mode since I got home from Stan’s two nights ago, and I feel like I’m never going to shake this funk. I might as well not have gone to school yesterday. Mr. Liverwort asked if I wanted to go home after lunch because I apparently looked sick. No fucking kidding: lovesick.

I am really stupid. Like really, really stupid. So stupid that I thought my best friend, who I _know_ is completely straight, might have feelings for me. He says everything’s cool, but for all I know, I’ve blown my friendship with the best guy I’ve ever met—all because I was stupid.

In case you’re wondering, I haven’t talked to Stan since that night. I can’t be sure, but I think he’s avoiding me. I haven’t even seen him in the halls between classes, which is really weird. I mean, I normally see him at least once during day, but he’s been nowhere to be found. But then again, why shouldn’t he be avoiding me? If my girlfriend had just dumped me, and I found out that my best friend is not only gay but also in love with me, I’d probably freak out, too. Come to think of it, I should probably be glad he didn’t freak out more. What the hell is wrong with me?! I mean, I get that it’s okay to be gay and all that, but it seems a little fucked up how hard I was crushing on my best friend.

Oh, no. I’m starting to feel it again, that sickness that Mr. Liverwort was talking about. _Lovesick_ really is the right word for it, too. I’ve never wanted to vomit and cry and go to sleep and never wake up more in my entire life. I remember when we talked about unrequited love in my English class this semester. Our teacher was saying how it’s a common theme in a lot of books, and now I totally get it: falling in love with someone who doesn’t feel the same way is probably the worst feeling in the world. And it’s even worse for people like me who fall in love with their best friends, who still love them “but not in that way”. Fuck, I just don’t want Stan to hate me. I mean, I _really_ want him to love me back, but I want him not to hate me more. Ugh.

At least I have Kenny. I don’t know what I would have done without him. He’s been like a brother to me throughout all of this—a crazy bisexual brother who might also want to jump my bones. (It’s hard to tell with him sometimes.) Oh, and Butters! I forgot to tell you: it’s kind of weird, but Butters randomly started talking to me this morning on my way to second period. Don’t get me wrong; I get along with him just fine. We just never talk all that much. He’s just… you know, Butters—kinda weird. I have to hand it to him, though… he must have crazy good people-reading skills.

“Well, hey there, Kyle,” he had said. “You look really down today. I hope everything’s alright.”

“What? No, I’m fine, Butters,” I had replied, sort of ignoring him but also a little caught off-guard.

“Well… everything doesn’t seem fine to me,” he’d replied, surprisingly brazen for someone usually so meek.

I don’t know whether it was the random ridiculousness of the moment or my genuine need for a friend that spurred me to do it, but I actually continued talking to Butters and even elected to hang out with him after school today. That is, until I remembered that I was going to a Freethinkers Club meeting with Cartman after last period.

“Oh, I see how it is,” Butters had mock-teased. “Mmhmm. Suddenly remembered you had other plans.”

“No, I’m serious,” I had replied, chuckling. I immediately realized it was the first time I had laughed—or genuinely smiled, for that matter—since I left Stan’s two nights ago. “I completely forgot about this other thing I’m doing,” I had continued. “How about we hang out tomorrow after school instead?”

And so we did.

* * *

 

I am normally not a big fan of staying after school to do stuff because (1) it means I either have to walk home alone or get someone else’s parents to give me a ride, and that’s lame, and (2) afterschool clubs blow big time. You know… maybe I shouldn’t say that anymore. I mean, it’s not like I can properly use it as an insult. I’m gay, so I blow things. I mean, I would _like_ to blow Stan—shit, things! I would like to blow _things_. I would like to blow Stan’s thing. Maybe I should stop talking now.

Or at least get back to the subject at hand: I’m staying after school today with Cartman to go to this new thing called the Freethinkers Club. He was so excited when he was telling me about it that it was kind of adorable. Cartman likes to pretend he has this tough skin, but I think that deep down he actually really cares about what people think and likes to impress others. Or maybe he just doesn’t want this atheist club to flop. I know he and Token had to work very hard to make it happen. In fact, if Cartman hadn’t threatened to get the ACLU involved, the school probably never would have given in to his demands. It was simple: he said that since our school had a Christian club, it would be discrimination if they didn’t allow other religious clubs, and he’d have grounds to sue. I have to give the bastard credit: he’s passionate about shit that he cares about. Although I’m not sure that what he and Token are doing technically counts as a “religious” club. I mean, the whole point is that there is no religion, right?

“No, no, Kyle,” Cartman had explained a bit condescendingly, as though he had to come down to my level. “All we’re saying is that there may not just be _one_ answer. We’re not saying everybody has to be an atheist. We’re just encouraging people to open up their minds, hence the name of the club,” he’d said, rolling his eyes.

God, he could be a real dick sometimes, but it was hard to argue with his logic.

Token, the group’s president—how Cartman ever let someone else have the spotlight here will remain a mystery to me—was running late, and since there were apparently going to be no other attendees to this first meeting, it was just me and Cartman alone in the auditorium for the first few minutes. I took the opportunity to ask him about everything I could think of related to God. I wanted to know more about what he thought, and more importantly, I wanted to know _why_. It’s not that Cartman’s the most secure person in his beliefs—he freely acknowledges that he might be wrong—but he’s certainly the most passionate. I mean, I love God (if God exists), and I trust in his will (I think), but it’s not as personal as what Cartman believes. He really puts his money where his mouth is when it comes to this stuff.

While we wait for Token, we talk about all kinds of things—well, he mostly talks, and I soak it up like a sponge. He tells me that scholars question the authenticity of books like the Torah and Bible because the earliest translations of the source material are sometimes unreliable. He also brings up lots of really interesting philosophical arguments that I had never heard of that question the possibility of an omnipotent creator. Eventually Token shows up, and we have the meeting, which mostly consists of us cutting up and planning a bake sale. Token has some pamphlets that I slip into my backpack to take home and read. Token and Cartman share a grand vision that involves more students joining us and us using money from the bake sale to buy more pamphlets to give out and maybe eventually when we get popular enough, we can have a school assembly. I’m not sure that I’m that ready to buy into all of this yet, but I’ll probably come back to the next meeting.

After we adjourn, I walk home with Cartman, and we keep talking. We talk about God and morals and prejudice and love. Eventually he asks the inevitable.

“So I take it you told Stan how you feel?”

Right. That. I take a deep breath. I had been so immersed in our discussion that I had almost forgotten about Stan.

“Yep, and you were right,” I say, shaking my head. “I was a goddamn lunatic.”

I am not sure if it is because he can tell that underneath my jokey response is a broken heart or whether he is just playing it safe, but once again Cartman’s empathy catches me by surprise.

“I’m really sorry, dude,” he says, putting his arm around my shoulder as we continue walking. “Getting rejected sucks, and I bet it’s a million times worse when it comes from your best friend.”

A week ago it would have been impossible to even fathom him saying those words. I want to ask him about his own experiences with rejection. If he is as insightful about love as he is about religion, then I want to know what he has to say. But I don’t ask him because I am too distracted by my own thoughts. What kind of guy—what kind of _straight_ guy—puts his arm around his gay friend while they’re walking around outside in broad daylight? I never thought I’d say this, but I am really lucky to have Eric Cartman as a friend.

* * *

 

“Cartman _and_ Butters? Well, aren’t you just Mr. Popular all of a sudden?” Kenny says with a smirk as we walk to school the next morning.

“I know, dude. It’s fucking crazy.”

“You should come out of the closet more often,” he adds, grinning. “Maybe they’re both hot for you.”

I roll my eyes and check my phone. Tomorrow I’m walking to school alone. 7:18 a.m. is too early for Kenny.

“God, don’t even say that,” I reply. “Butters doesn’t even know I’m gay. Unless someone told him.” I shoot my friend a glance at that.

“Oh, please,” he shoots back. “I’m not going to share all your secrets. Besides, why would Butters care? I think he’s gay, too.”

“Jesus, Ken. You can’t just assume everyone’s gay. I’ve learned that the hard way.” Shit. Stan. Can I please just go back in time a week and pretend none of this ever happened?

“That’s fair,” Kenny replies. “But Butters isn’t just weird. I mean, he is kinda weird, I guess, but I’m also pretty sure he’s gay, too.”

“Oh, yeah? How can you tell?”

“Gaydar, dude. I’m surprised yours isn’t better. You should have spotted me from a mile away.”

“Oh, come on. You’re not gay. You’re bi. That is _not_ the same thing.” I think about it and add, “You know, you’re probably not even just bi. I’m pretty sure you’ll fuck anything. You’re an _everysexual_.”

That gets a laugh out of Kenny, which is nice, and it makes me laugh, which is also nice. I miss laughing.

“So what are you gonna do if Butters put the moves on you this afternoon?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“Oh my God, will you stop? Maybe _you_ should be the one hanging out with him. You seem to have a Butters fixation.”

“Okay, fine. Why _are_ you hanging out, then?”

“You’re so nosy. We’re just going to compare notes on our research papers for English. That’s all.” I am starting to get annoyed, and he can tell. Unfortunately, he knows I’m harmless, so he keeps on.

“Comparing notes, eh? Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

I groan. “You’re killing me right now. You’re killing me so much that I might actually die.”

Kenny just cackles.

* * *

 

“God, I fucking hate research papers.”

“But Mrs. Dean is letting us do them on anything we want. That’s not so bad.”

I roll my eyes. “Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I want to write fifty fucking note cards. It’s the twenty-first century. Who the hell uses note cards anymore? We have the internet!”

“Aww, Kyle, now that’s no way to think about it. This is supposed to be a fun project, so enjoy yourself. You have good company, at least.”

Butters’ relentless optimism is almost too much, though I am amused by that last comment he slips in. To be honest, I sometimes forget that Butters exists. He’s just sort of there, quiet and unassuming. And definitely an oddball. On the plus side, he’s been in my bedroom for over 45 minutes now, and I haven’t had the urge to strangle him, which is definitely an improvement over elementary school.

“Why, it’s all in how you look at things, Kyle,” he continues. “I’m doing my paper on dressage because I like horses, and I think it’s an interesting sport.”

Christ, I forgot to tell you: Butters is doing his research paper on fucking _dressage_. You know that thing in the Olympics where guys in top hats and ridiculous clothes ride around on prancing horses that do tricks? Yeah, that. It’s like he has no shame whatsoever. Or maybe he’s just completely clueless.

“I don’t know if dressage is really a _sport_ ,” I say, gingerly as possible. “I mean, I guess it is, technically, but… I don’t know. It just seems sort of...” I trail off, realizing that I don’t entirely want to finish my thought out loud.

For the first time since he came over this afternoon, Butters looks annoyed. “Sort of what? What’s wrong with dressage, Kyle?”

“Dude, I don’t know. It just seems sort of lame.”

Rather than seeming offended, Butters just matches me. “Oh, yeah? Well, what’s so great about Salvador _Dalí_? I’m sure people will think that’s a dumb topic, too.”

“Oh, please,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “His art is awesome, and he had an epically amazing mustache. No dressage horse could possibly be better than that.” This is quickly shaping up to be one of the strangest conversations I’ve had in a while, which is really saying something: yesterday Kenny described to me in great detail, against my wishes, how this girl he ate out over the summer tasted just like cantaloupe. I may or may not have thrown up a little bit in my mouth when he told me that.

Fortunately, there is no vomiting in my exchange with Butters. Instead, we quickly devolve into a pattern of increasingly absurd one-upmanship in defense of our respective research paper topics. Our ridiculous back-and-forth culminates in my dogged assertion that a secret army of mutant Nazi dressage horses were responsible for World War II, which is finally what sends Butters over the edge into a fit of hysterical laughter.

Have I mentioned how much I enjoy making people laugh? It’s the most awesome feeling. I used to be able to make Stan laugh like that. Back when things were like they used to be, before I realized I was in love with him, I could send my best friend into a cackling fit almost effortlessly. Now, because of what I’ve done, things are different, and I’m not sure that I’ll ever be able to put a smile on his face again.

This realization hits me harder than I expect, and the laughter I am sharing with Butters quickly morphs into choked back sobs, to which Butters is immediately attuned.

“What’s wrong, Kyle?” he asks, at my side in a flash. There’s something about him. I see it in his eyes, an almost preternatural depth of understanding. This is a safe space. Butters will not judge me.

He is the fourth person I tell that I am gay. He does not pry; he only listens. I tell him that I am in love with my best friend and that I don’t think I’m ever going to get over him. I tell him I am worried that my parents will be disappointed because I don’t want to grow up and love a woman. I tell him I am frustrated with God because he’s given me this burden of not being like everyone else and that it isn’t fair. I tell him that maybe I don’t believe in God and that that makes me nauseous if I think about it too much. I tell him that I want this all to be over and done with but that I don’t think the waters will calm anytime soon. I tell him I am sorry for rambling.

He sits across from me, legs crossed, showing nothing but love and support. He grabs my hand and says _there, there, there’s nothing to worry about_. He says it’s okay for me to keep rambling, that he has all the time in the world to listen. I believe every word he says, and everything feels just fine.

But then it is not fine. After I’ve steadied myself and taken a breath, I see that he suddenly looks sick himself, shifting his pale weight uncomfortably. I don’t have time to ask what’s wrong before he leans in and kisses me on the mouth.


	5. Day 8

On a scale of one to ten—ten being completely shocked and one being not at all surprised—Butters kissing me felt like a four hundred twenty-seven. I was so caught off guard by what he did that I could barely even register my own feelings about it at the time. And of course, my brain couldn’t just go about processing this event like a normal person’s would. My mind didn’t debate whether or not I liked the kiss (I don’t think so since I wasn’t prepared, and also it was a kiss from Butters), or how good of a kisser he was (it’s hard to say since I had no one to compare him to), or even whether or not I felt violated (on principle, yes, but come on—it’s _Butters_ ). Instead, I immediately panicked. Even though I had just told him I was gay, I wasn’t expecting him to be gay, too—despite what Kenny said. Nor was I expecting him to kiss me like that! So I did the first logical thing that came to mind: I told Butters to get the hell out of my bedroom and out of my house.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, clearly panicking himself and quite possibly on the verge of tears.

“Just get out now!”

“Please don’t be mad. I promise I never would have done it if I knew it would upset you, Kyle.”

“Now, Butters! I really need you to leave. Please.”

A part of me felt terrible, but I also knew that I couldn’t be around him any more at that moment. There was too much going on in my head, and I felt like I might scream or cry or vomit at any moment.

He gathered his things quickly, breathing heavily and fumbling as he shoved stuff into his bag. He was shaking so much that I assumed he must be trying as hard as I was (if not more so) to remain composed. Even in the moment, I knew I didn’t want to hurt him, but I couldn’t let him stick around, either.

After a few minutes that felt like much longer, he was gone, and I was left alone at the scene of the accident. That was two days ago, and I haven’t spoken to Butters since.

* * *

 

For what it’s worth, Kenny starts with an apology this time. Yesterday he just lied.

After the kiss heard ‘round the world, I had just wanted to be alone. I’m not sure if my parents could tell if anything was amiss at dinner that night, but­­­­ if they could, they didn’t let on. I was largely silent, only responding when necessary to maintain the illusion that I hadn’t been caught off-guard by another boy kissing me in my bedroom just hours before.

It wasn’t until the next day that I told Kenny what happened. At first he seemed shocked, but he was also probing carefully. Had I been in a clearer mental state, I probably could have noticed that he was being unusually calculating in his questions and responses.

When we are alone in my house after school today is when he finally comes clean. There’s something he needs to tell me, he says sheepishly.

“I’m really sorry, and please don’t be mad, but Butters might have known you were gay before you told him.”

“What do you mean, he _might_ have known?” I snap.

He cringes, aware that there’s no turning back now. “Fuck, I’m sorry dude, but I told him. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I couldn’t help myself. He was just so sweet.”

A million things race through my head, a few of which involve strangling Kenny, but most of which revolve around how hurt and betrayed and shitty I feel at this exact moment. I erupt.

“You asshole! What kind of fucking friend are you?” I want to be kinder, more articulate. I want to stress to him how the information about me that he shared without my knowledge is private and personal and not his to divulge. I want to tell him that I trusted him as a friend and that he abused that trust. I want to let him know that he made a mistake but that I still love him as a friend, even if I can’t fully trust him for a while. But my mind is not in a place where it can say those things or even make those kinds of connections. Instead, I continue along the explosive road I am paving.

“Of all the shitty things to do—I mean, who does that?! I fucking trusted you, asshole.” And on and on I go.

Fortunately for him—and for me, I will eventually see in retrospect—Kenny McCormick is resilient. He is much stronger than I am, in fact. As I exhaust myself with screaming and creep back from the verge of tears, Kenny sits, and he takes it all in. Then he grabs my hand, and he looks sad. Even after I jerk away from him, he puts his hand on my shoulder and will not let go. He looks at me in the eyes and tells me his truth.

“I love you, man. You know that. I love you like a brother, and I would never do anything if I thought it would seriously fuck you up. I made a mistake with Butters, and I’m sorry for that.”

He tells me about the last time he got drunk, a party at Clyde’s. I have never particularly gotten along with Clyde and for that reason am never invited to his supposedly epic parties. There weren’t many people at this one, Kenny tells me, and they were mostly lame—Craig, Tweek, some chicks. For some reason Butters was there, too (speaking of people who are lame).

“Butters didn’t realize the punch was spiked,” Kenny says, grinning widely. I roll my eyes, annoyed that he finds humor in any part of this situation, but I think he suspects I am bluffing a little bit now to keep up appearances. “Kenny’s famous hunch punch and gay boys losing their inhibitions—sounds like another party I attended in the recent past,” he continues playfully, trying to chip away at my stubborn, pissy veneer. But I don’t take the bait.

“So did you tell him I was gay before or after you got him drunk?” I ask coldly. He chooses not to acknowledge my tone or my question.

He continues, “We both had lots of punch. After his second or third round, he realized what was going on. He freaked out and told me he’d get grounded if he came home drunk, but I told him that there was nothing to be scared of, that I would protect him. He blushed when I said that, and that’s when I knew my suspicions were correct. So I led him outside to the patio. We played 20 Questions, and I asked if he had a crush on anyone at school. He turned beet-fucking-red and said _yes_ but that he was too embarrassed to say who. So I knew I had to loosen him up a little. I told him that no matter what he said, his secret would be safe with me and that if it would make him feel better, I would tell him some of the people I have crushes on. I told him about all of them, the girls _and_ the boys, and I know that’s what made him comfortable enough to say it—well, that and the hunch punch. He told me he’d had a crush on Kyle Broflovski—that’s you, lover boy—for like a year now but that he was really embarrassed and knew that there was no way you’d be interested, especially since he’s a boy.”

“Wait a second,” I interject, mildly annoyed. “So if Butters didn’t suspect I was gay, then why the fuck did you tell him?”

“I’m sorry, man,” Kenny chuckles. “My drunk brain thought it was a good idea at the time. He just seemed so dopey and gaga about you, I thought there was a chance you might be into him, too. I mean, what if you had been? I could have been doing both of you a service playing matchmaker like that. If you think about it that way, not telling him would have been so much worse. Besides, you ended up telling him yourself, anyway.”

“No!” I raise my voice, really angry this time. “What you did is not okay. You can’t just out someone like that. I trusted you with my most personal secret, and you just spread it around like it was no big deal. Not fucking cool.”

“Look, man, I’m really sorry. It’s just Butters. No harm done.”

“That’s not the point! What you did is really idiotic and selfish, you know that?”

It is at this point that Kenny turns from defense to offense. I am not sure if my choice of words is what sets him off or if he has been silently letting it build during my ranting.

“No, you’re the one who’s selfish, Kyle. I’ve been here for you since you started dealing with all this, and now I’m just trying to help someone else like I helped you. Have you thought once about how poor Butters feels? He told me that you yelled at him and made him feel like shit the other day after he kissed you. Do you have any idea how much it took him to muster up the courage to do that?”

“Seriously, dude? You’ve been talking about this with him behind my back?! You know, maybe your shitty advice is the real problem here.”

We continue on longer than I care to think about. He tells me that by freaking out on Butters like that, I’m no better than Stan was after I told him how I felt—worse even, Kenny says. I tell him that he’s a complete flake and not at all trustworthy as a friend. He tells me that I’m ten times shittier than he is in the friend department. I tell him to fuck off and leave, and he does so without putting up any more of a fight. He slams the door, and the walls reverberate with the sound of his going. I am suddenly aware of how alone I am in this big, empty house.

* * *

 

Lonely. Shitty. Nervous. Nauseous. The combination of things I feel after Kenny storms out is not pleasant. It’s easily the crappiest I’ve felt since I left Stan’s the other night. It might even be worse, which I didn’t think was possible. I can’t be alone in this house right now. I decide to take a walk.

I can’t help but be reminded of how much I’ve lost in the last week, and I try to trace the source of why I feel so empty and alone. I wouldn’t feel lonely if I hadn’t fought with Kenny. I wouldn’t have fought with Kenny if I hadn’t shared the world’s most awkward kiss with the world’s most awkward seventh grader. Butters wouldn’t have kissed me if he hadn’t known I was gay. Kenny wouldn’t have told him I was gay if he hadn’t known. There’s the problem: Kenny. If that crafty fucker hadn’t figured out my secret, then he never would have encouraged me to tell Stan how I felt, which means that I never would have had that awkward conversation with him, and we’d still be best friends… right? I mean, the only thing that was causing a wedge between us before was Wendy, and now that she’s out of the picture, Stan and I could have resumed our friendship just like before! Maybe there’s still a chance…

It is at this precise moment, in which I am not at all paying attention to where I am walking, that I run into the back of someone waiting at the crosswalk, immersed in his phone. He curses under his breath, only glancing up from the screen long enough to turn his head and shoot a death stare at whatever klutz ran right into him. Of course, his expression immediately changes from annoyed to embarrassed when he realizes that it’s me. I’m not entirely sure what to say, and apparently neither is he because we stare at each other for several long seconds. Eventually I feel compelled to break the awkward silence.

“Uh… hey, man,” I say quietly.

“Oh, yeah. Hey,” replies Stan, offering a weak smile in return.

“So… it’s been a while,” I say, grasping for conversational straws.

He looks incredibly uncomfortable, like he has something urgent on his mind but isn’t sure if he can bring himself to say it. We stare silently at each other for a few more uncomfortable seconds before he finally blurts it out.

“Dude, I am so fucking sorry!”

I am speechless.

He continues, “I’m sorry I acted weird when you told me you were gay, and I’m sorry I lied to you.”

“Lied to me about what?” I ask, confused.

“Kyle, there’s something I have to tell you… Wendy didn’t break up with me. I broke up with her.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He looks around to make sure there’s no one else nearby. “I broke up with her because I realized I didn’t love her anymore. I mean, I do, but only as a friend. I realized there’s someone else I have feelings for, and I couldn’t keep on living a lie.”

“I don’t understand. Who is it?”

He takes a deep breath. “It’s you.” He looks me in the eyes to gauge my reaction, but I know it must be hard to read because I am in complete shock.

He continues, “I couldn’t tell you the other night because you telling me how you felt freaked me out— like it was really surreal, and I couldn’t believe it was happening. I should have told you before, but I didn’t because I was scared. But I have to tell you now before it’s too late and you change your mind: I’m in love with you, Kyle, and I have been for a very long time.”

I take a deep breath and pull my best friend into a long, tight embrace. I lean in and feel his warmth. I smell him, and it is intoxicating. After a moment, I look into his eyes, and I can tell we’re on the same wavelength. I lean in to kiss him, and he kisses me back, and it’s the most amazing thing that’s ever happened in the history of the world.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, jolting me back to reality. I shake my head, annoyed that I let myself get lost in a daydream. I take a breath and survey my surroundings. The crosswalk, which has gone through probably a dozen cycles by now, is still as empty as it was when I wandered up to it. The only signs of life are a squirrel on an oak tree in the small park across the road and a trail of ants dancing into a drain pipe to a carefree, uniform beat. I envy lesser beings. I envy the ants.

I look at my phone’s display. A text from Mom: “When will you be home? We need to talk.”

* * *

 

 _Dude… I am fucking dead._ Send.

_Chill out, pseudo jew. They probably won’t kill you, but if they do…_

_What???_

_…you’ll be crucified! xD_

Ugh. I stare at the screen of my messenger in mild irritation. I know he’s trying to cheer me up, but now is not the time for jokes.

_Dude. Fucking seriously, Cartman? I could be in deep shit here. They might ground me for WEEKS._

_No way. Just lie and tell them it’s somebody else’s._

I suppose I should get you up to speed here. Fat Ass can wait a few minutes while I fill you in.

When Kenny and I got back to my place after school today, I dropped my bag on the dining room table so that I could do some homework after he left. I got distracted by our little feud, and when I went out for a stroll to clear my head, I forgot to take my bag up to my room. I also forgot that one of the pamphlets from the Freethinkers Club meeting was sticking out of one of the pockets, in plain view of anyone who might want to pull it out and give it a quick read.

Before you jump to any conclusions, I should tell you that even though my mom’s really lame most of the time, she’s not nearly as crazy as she was when I was a kid. She’s really toned it down. I think she realized she had a few screws loose after she declared war on Canada, and her shrink got her on Xanax, which seems to have mellowed her out.

Anyway, she said she wasn’t snooping in my bag, and I believe her. She said that she just saw a pamphlet with the word _religion_ on it and thought that maybe I was learning about world religions in social studies. I mean, I’m still kind of pissed that she was rifling through my stuff, but this is completely my fault. I shouldn’t have dropped my bag downstairs, and I shouldn’t have left that damn pamphlet sticking out of it. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Even worse: only the top word on the pamphlet, _religion_ , was visible to my mother… until she pulled it out of the pocket and was able to read the rest of the sentence: _is ruining our world_. So yeah. Now you can see that I’m kind of fucked. When I got home, my mom wasn’t as angry as I thought she’d be, but she seemed really _concerned_ , which I’m sure you know is the fucking worst coming from your mother.

“Oh, bubby, I’m so _concerned_. What are you getting yourself into? I don’t even know who your friends are anymore. What’s next, drugs? Sex? Oh, honey, you’re not having sex, are you?!”

Oy. After I tell her multiple times that it was just some brochure that I picked up from school without reading the title, she finally let me go to my room, but only, she says, because I need to get my homework done.

I know that when my father gets home, I’ll have to hear even more of it. He’s not a hard-ass or anything, but I know he won’t take this well and that they’ll probably ground me. My mother might have softened up these last few years, but she’s not stupid: even though I told her that it was nothing, I have no poker face. She had to have seen right through me, and I am seriously freaking out about it.

 _So what the fuck do I do?_ I ask Cartman.

_Maybe you should just tell them the truth._

_I’m not an atheist, though!_

_Dude, then don’t tell them that. Tell them whatever IS true._

I stare at the blinking cursor in front of me. I realize that I don’t know what the truth is. I don’t know what I believe, and that sends a chill down my spine.

Can I still be a Jew if I don’t believe in God? Do I even want to be a Jew? Do I believe in God? Why are these questions so difficult to answer? And what the hell am I going to tell my parents when they ask me about it during dinner?!

Fuck. I have no clue what to say or what to do, and all I know is that now is literally the worst possible time for this to be happening. One identity crisis is enough for one week! I mean, I’m only thirteen. Aren’t I too young for all this shit?! I just want to be a kid again.

I take a deep breath and rock slowly back and forth for a moment in my chair, trying to keep this incoming panic attack at bay. After a moment, a new message appears from Cartman.

_Whatever happens, man, I’m here for you. I wish I could tell you what to say, but the truth is I don’t know how your parents are gonna react to anything. Whatever happens, though, I got your back._

I smile at that. I acknowledge that I’ve not had the best track record keeping friends lately, so I’m going to do whatever it takes to make sure I don’t lose this one.

Reality hits me hard again: I’ve alienated all of my friends—except for Cartman—and my parents know I’m questioning my faith. Oh, and let’s not forget the big one: I’m completely and totally 100% gay.

Can I get a do-over on this month, or maybe this entire year? Can I get a do-over on this life?


	6. Yom Kippur

To my surprise, my parents did not ground me after my father got home that evening. This made me more than a bit nervous. Parents are okay as long as you can stay two steps ahead of them. I don’t like it when I can’t figure out what’s on their minds, and that’s exactly what was happening with this situation. Luckily, I didn’t get the silent treatment at dinner, which was what I expected to happen. Instead, it was surprisingly low key.

“I hear that you’re learning about religions in school,” my father asked me nonchalantly between bites. My face flushed red, and I was unsure how to respond, caught off guard by his casual tone.

“Oh, well, it’s not for a class, exactly,” I stammered, unaware how or why these words were choosing to leave my mouth at this moment.

“Oh? Some sort of club, then?” he continued, cool as before.

“Yeah… sort of.” I paused to gather my thoughts. “I mean, there was a discussion of different religions, and one of the kids talked about atheism, and I took the pamphlet because it was the one that I knew the least about. I was just curious about what people like that believe.” Wow. That wasn’t bad for an ad lib. I mean, it was pretty much complete bullshit, but I think I pulled it off nicely.

“Or don’t believe,” my mother chimed in, spearing a piece of asparagus. By this point Ike had zoned out, bored, as usual, by the idle chitchat I shared daily with our parents at dinner.

“I see,” my father said. “And is that something that interests you, atheism?”

“I’m only curious about it,” I replied, perhaps a bit too defensively, my voice rising higher than it should have. I tried to rein in my panic and refocus. “I just think it’s interesting how some people can believe _nothing_. Like it makes no sense to me. I want to know more about what they think, that’s all.”

“So it’s a purely academic fascination?” my dad asked a bit hopefully, the first small crack in his veneer of neutrality.

“Of course,” I said, internally breathing a sigh of relief. “What, did you think I was denouncing my faith or something?” I laugh, perhaps forcing the levity too soon.

“Well,” my mother added, “I don’t know why you felt the need to lie about it earlier, but I’m glad to hear it’s nothing we should be concerned about.” My father nodded in agreement. “My little scholar,” she continued, leaning over to pinch my cheek. Oy.

Fortunately, my parents haven’t said anything about the pamphlet since that night, which I assume (hope) means that they really did believe me and that this conversation is over for now. Something tells me that eventually I will want to be honest with them, but I can’t do that until I know for sure what it is that I believe—or don’t believe. Today is definitely not the day for that conversation because I have a million things on my mind. Also, it is _Yom Kippur_ , the holiest day of the year for Jewish people.

Maybe it’s because I can’t help but get a little wrapped up in the solemnity of the day, but I can’t stop thinking about what all of this means—faith, life, God, repentance. For those of you who don’t remember, _Yom Kippur_ marks the end of the Days of Awe and is commonly known as the Day of Atonement. Traditionally, it is observed by 25 hours of fasting and prayer, as well as temple services, of course. It is a day for Jews everywhere to repent of their sins and ask God for forgiveness. Now that I am a man according to Jewish tradition, my parents said I could be excused from going to school because I was old enough to fast and go to temple. I knew it would be a risky move, especially after the pamphlet incident, but I told them there was no way I could miss school, even with an excuse. I stressed to them how important it was that I go since I have two big tests today (I don’t), and even though they didn’t seem thrilled about my decision, they also didn’t stop me. Woohoo.

I mean, I could have skipped school and played along, but something just felt unnatural about it—like faking my reverence to God for the day would be an even greater sin than skipping out on the temple services. I know that’s completely crazy, but I’m still not sure what I think about God and all that, and I don’t want to take my chances any more than I already am. Besides, I did elect to fast for the day, which I know my parents appreciate.

I think the fasting is what’s driving me to think about all of this stuff. My belly is empty, so all I’m left with are my thoughts, and today, those thoughts are consumed by my faith. In the spirit of the day, now that I’m a Jewish man, I probably _should_ be seeking atonement. What things have I done, what thoughts have I thought, that require me to seek God’s forgiveness? I guess number one on the list would be questioning the existence of God. If he is real and omnipotent and all that, then that’s definitely a big one. Besides that, I don’t know.

I suppose when I think about it, God isn’t the only person who I should be asking for forgiveness. I need to make things better with the people in my life who I _know_ are real. I don’t think I want to talk to Kenny again yet—besides, he’s the one who should be asking for _my_ forgiveness—but there are others. Screw Kenny and his untrustworthy bullshit, but he did make a point the other day, and despite how I acted, what he said made an impact: I hurt Butters, and I need to make it right. I mean, yes he kissed me without my permission when I was vulnerable, but come on, he’s completely harmless. Don’t you think? Plus, I believe him when he said he wouldn’t have done it if he thought it would upset me.

God, I’m so hungry. Fucking fasting. I’m not used to this feeling of emptiness, this ceaseless craving. But I guess that’s mostly the point, isn’t it? A part of me wants to cheat and break the fast at lunch, but I’m not the kind of person who gives up once I start something. I’m just going to have to go until sundown being reminded of how hungry I am. I’m so hungry I could eat a woolly mammoth. I’m hungry for food. I’m hungry for love. I’m hungry for—no, I’m not going down this path again. Sooner or later I have to get it in my head that he doesn’t love me _in that way_. He doesn’t now, and he never will because he’s 100% straight. And I know that being stuck on Stan isn’t going to get me anywhere, but shit—I don’t think I’m ever going to shake him.

Ahhhhhhhhh. None of this is fair. I’m going to go crazy. I’m going to crazy and starve because I’m fasting. Fucking _Yom Kippur_.

Okay, I’m getting nowhere with my thoughts, and I haven’t paid the least bit of attention this entire class. As soon as the bell rings, I have to find Cartman. I need to talk to someone. I need to clear my head.

* * *

 

Kids complain about school a lot—I’m as guilty as anyone—but I’ll tell you: school is a million times worse than usual when you’re hungry. At least it is for me. When I get hungry, I tend to get prickly, and that is the case the entire first half of the day today, until I catch Cartman after lunch on his way to science class. He soothes my irritation instantly, just like he has the last few times I’ve hung out with him. We only have a few minutes, but he tells me what I need to hear. He tells me that I’m right to want to apologize to Butters and that I should probably do it sooner rather than later because Butters is kind of a sad gaywad. (Sorry, dude, he says. It just slipped out, and what he actually meant to say is that Butters is super lame and has no friends.) He also tells me that I should talk to Kenny, at which I snort dismissively. Finally, after I ask what I should do about Stan, he tells me the thing I don’t want to hear but that I need to hear: I have to talk to him and sort all of this the fuck out so that the two of us can go back to being super-duper best friends.

It’s a tall order, so I decide to cross Butters off the list first. Please don’t judge me too harshly for this because I know it’s creepy as fuck, but I’m too anxious to say anything to him during school. (What exactly do you say to someone in this situation? _Sorry I freaked out after you rape-kissed me, but I was hoping maybe we could be friends and it not be super awkward_?) So I decide to follow him home after last period, trailing him by far enough that if he does see me, it will hopefully seem like a coincidence.

I manage to remain unseen the entire way to his house. When he gets to his front door, there is a loud dog barking a few houses down, and it startles him. He turns and sees me, a few feet away from his mailbox. Here we go. Now or never.

“Kyle? Did you… come to my house?” he asks, clearly confused.

“I… well… yeah, I mean, sort of.” Jesus, Kyle. How difficult of a question was that, really, dipshit?

Butters’ face flushes red. “Oh, well, do you want to come inside?” he asks. I can’t tell what, if anything, he is thinking or implying—this is Butters, after all—but I accept the invitation. Once I step through the door, he offers to take my coat. Such a gentleman. I oblige him but decide to clear the air before he gets the wrong idea.

“Sorry I followed you home. I wanted to talk to you but didn’t want to do it in public. This was the only option I could think of. Kind of stupid, I know.”

“Not at all, Kyle,” he says, perking up and offering those familiar reassurances.

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, though. I mean, I didn’t come here to…” I trail off, unsure how I should finish that sentence. Shit, now I’m the one blushing. After a moment, I gather my thoughts and continue: “What I mean is that I just came here to apologize. I acted like a dick the other day, and I shouldn’t have. I was really rude, and I wanted you to know that I was sorry.”

Butters smiles. He sits down on one end of a couch and leans over to pat the opposite cushion. I consider it but elect to sit on a nearby chair instead, just in case he gets the wrong idea.

Unfazed, he speaks: “Well, I know you’re sorry, Kyle, and the truth is, I’m sorry, too. Kissing you like that without saying anything wasn’t right. Well, I just don’t know what came over me.”

I chuckle unintentionally. “Seriously?”

“Why, what’s so funny, Kyle?”

“You don’t know what came over you, really? I do. Kenny told me.” At that his face turns a deep crimson, and I am pretty sure I have never seen someone so embarrassed in my entire life.

“Oh, god, Kyle, I’m so sorry!”

I laugh again. Is he serious right now? “Look, dude, it’s fine. I mean, you know that you’re not the only one in this room with a crush who—” But I stop because he is now having a full-blown panic attack mere feet away from me. I jump up from the chair, not entirely sure how I can help but confident that sitting on my ass is not the best course of action if I want to be a good friend here. I elect to sit down beside Butters on the couch as he rocks back and forth, gasping. I wonder, does he have asthma?

“Dude, do you have an inhaler?” I ask, leaning in.

He shakes his head. “Paper… bag…” he says between sharp breaths. I spring up, run to the kitchen, and finally locate one in a cabinet, hidden behind an oversized oatmeal box. I hop back onto the couch and hand him the bag. I am unsure what to do, so I put my arm around him to calm him down. At first, that just increases the pace of his frantic breathing, but when I try to pull away, he shakes his head _no_. I remain in that awkward position, with my arm hanging limp around his shoulder as I sit far enough away to avoid our thighs touching. After a couple of minutes, he is calm enough to discard the bag.

He looks at me silently, face still flushed but calmer, his eyes very much alive and full of things to say. But instead of speaking, he leans his face into my shoulder and cries for a while. I would find it awkward if I hadn’t just helped him to come down from a (possibly?) life-threatening panic attack.

After he has stops crying, I look at him with platonic but genuinely deep love, like how I imagine a father might look at his fragile child. I find it in me in a place I don’t normally reach, some rare depth that I apparently possess. I tell him that it’s my turn to listen to him now if he wants to talk. But he shakes his head _no_ , so I ask him if it’s okay if I talk, and he whispers _yes_.

I tell him that I think falling in love is batshit crazy but that I don’t think there’s anything we can do about it. I tell him that no matter how hard I try not to be, I am completely head-over-heels in love with my best friend, and that if I think about it too much, I get angry and want to cry and think that life isn’t fair at all. And maybe it’s not, I say. Maybe falling in love is just something that happens, and there’s no way we can control when it happens or who we fall for. Perhaps it’s just like the weather: try as we might, there’s nothing we can do to stop it. We just have to take it stride and try to make the best of it. And when it rains when what we really want is sunshine, well, that’s just part of how life goes. Stan being straight is my rain, I tell him. There’s nothing I can do about it, and it’s just something I have to accept. I tell him that I hope one day I’ll get over Stan but that maybe I won’t. I tell him that I hope I eventually find someone who can love me back and that I hope Butters does, too. When I tell him that last part, he looks at me like a sad, injured kitten, but I know it’s something that I have to say.

When I do, he slinks his head down so that it is no longer on my shoulder but on my thigh. He turns his head to face the wall because, I think, he doesn’t want to look me in the eyes. But he doesn’t want to let go, either. Because we have to be honest, I pry him off, and he silently retreats to the opposite end of the couch, his kneels curled up to his chin, staring at me, unsure. There is no easy way to say it, so I have to say it truthfully.

“Butters, you know I’m in love with Stan. _Maybe_ if things were different, I’d be willing to give it a shot with you, but honestly… I don’t think so. You’re a great guy, so great that I would be lucky to have someone half as great as you. You’re kind and generous and a real gentleman. And you’re a good friend. And that’s what I want us to be: good friends.”

These things are never easy; I know from experience. The first thing Butters does is nod his head slowly, and then his eyes begin to water, and he commences crying again, tear ducts full speed ahead. After a while, he says that maybe I should go now, that it’s getting kinda late. It’s a weak excuse on his part, but I’m not heartless enough to acknowledge it in front of him. Once he’s composed himself enough, I give him a great big hug—bigger than my usual brand of hug—before I go. There are so many things I want him to know, the most important being that everything will be okay eventually. But he does not see that now. He can’t. For now he can only recognize the other truth that I myself have come to know all too well: unrequited love fucking sucks.

* * *

 

It’s already been a hell of a long day—and an even longer afternoon—but I have one more thing I must do before I go home to feast at sundown. Compelled by my hunger and my desire to make things right, I go to Stan’s. He answers the door and is clearly surprised to see me.

“Hey,” he says awkwardly. It is my first time hearing his voice in a week. The familiarity of his sounds comforts me. I want to be wrapped up by the words he says, tinged as they are with the beginnings of the deep voice he will have on the other side of puberty. The thought of it, of him, melts me. I want to be wrapped up in his arms. I want him to hold me. I want to hold him. I am hungry.

These are the thoughts that flash through my mind in the milliseconds after he greets me at the door, and I shake them away, driven by the mission that has brought me to the Marsh residence.

“Hey. So… you home alone?” I ask, shifting my weight from one leg to the other as the chilly air pierces the space between us.

“Yeah, actually. The coast is clear for a couple of hours.” He pauses for just a second, a second longer than he would have before I came out to him and the air between us hung heavy with awkward revelations. He adds: “You want to come in?” More than he could possibly understand.

When we are inside, not much is said at first. He offers me a soda, which I eagerly accept because it gives me an opportunity to say something to him besides the thing that’s hanging over both of us. Armed with our carbonated beverages—I don’t open mine because I’m still fasting—we go upstairs and sit across from each other on the floor in his bedroom, him propped against his bed and me by the door, perfectly poised to flee or be kicked out.

To my surprise, we quickly ease into old patterns of conversation: classes, parents, friends. I tell him that I have actually started to enjoy Cartman’s company. This amuses him to no end, and I know that once things are back to normal and the dust has settled, he will have his jokes about that. I also tell him about Kenny and the friend I’ve found in him. I tell him that Kenny was the first person who dragged the truth out of me, who drunkenly encouraged me to face my desires, who put me in two very awkward situations. As I tell him this, Stan is amused and receptive. He seems horrified when I tell him about the kiss heard ‘round the world, and he is a little saddened when I update him on the state of things with Kenny. I tell him I’m struggling with my faith in God, and he says that he can sympathize because he has the same thoughts, the same questions, the same doubts.

I had not intended to tell him everything so quickly, but he drew it out of me almost effortlessly. And then, just like that, I am reminded of all the reasons I have, for as long as I can remember, considered him my best friend.

He tells me about how much it’s sucked having to get over Wendy, that every time he sees her flirting with Token it’s like a dagger in the gut. I tell him I know exactly what he means, and I manage to say it without making either of us feel awkward. He smiles and tells me not to take it the wrong way, but he’s always thought of me as a brother and he’s missed hanging out with me and he’s glad I’m here with him right now. He says he’s really glad I’m his best friend, or at least, he hopes I’m still his best friend.

I tell him that I’m honored to be his best friend, even though it’s still a little weird for me as I deal with my feelings. To his credit, Stan takes this in the best possible way. He says that if he was even the tiniest bit interested in guys, he’d be all over me in a heartbeat. I laugh, and so does he. I walk over and sock him in the arm before plopping down on his bed and grabbing his laptop. I type in his password almost automatically—it’s been the same since he got the computer in fifth grade: _sparky69_ —and put on some music that I know we’ll both like.

We sit and laugh. We play video games and talk about how much school sucks. We make fun of the people we think are lame—most of them, same as always—and talk about the things we want in life. We both want to be happy. We both want to find love. We both want to figure it all out.

Luckily, there is one thing I have figured out: I am surrounded by family and friends who care for me, and at the core of them is Stan, the best friend I could ever want. I can’t let myself forget that again.

Later, after I’ve walked back home, as the sun prepares to set and the Broflovskis prepare to break our _Yom Kippur_ fast, I think that no matter what happens, things are probably going to be okay.


	7. Epilogue - Shalom

It’s amazing what a season can do. For the most part, what happens in the three months after _Yom Kippur_ surprises me, but a small part of it turns out to be expected. Obvious results do not always mean easy answers, though. I have found that to be true perhaps more than anything else.

One of the best examples of this is Stan, who, not long after we began to hang out again, started touching me around other people. It was the weirdest thing, and I was not a fan at first. After all, he knew he broke my heart, so this came across as a very mixed message. Don’t get me wrong: I liked Stan touching me, like, a _lot_. But it got out of hand a couple of times, usually when alcohol was involved. It wouldn’t have been so bad if everyone knew I was gay, but at the time I was only out to a select group of friends, and I didn’t want everyone else finding out because they saw my best friend groping me. (It’s only been in the last month that I’ve actually officially come out at school—to everyone. I’ll tell you more about _that_ later.)

My breaking point with Stan came one Friday night at a party at Cartman’s, whose mom was sleeping over at some guy’s. Stan had way too much beer way too fast. He snaked his arm around my shoulder (not an uncommon occurrence back then) before dropping it to my lower back (a bit odd) and, after a few minutes, grabbing my ass (what the hell?!). Before anyone could see, I dragged him to an empty bathroom and locked us in.

“Do you mind telling me what the fuck you’re doing?!” I asked, trying to keep my voice at non-screaming level, unsure how thin the walls were.

“Dude, I’m sorry,” he replied, red in the face, half embarrassed and half inebriated. Ever since Stan had started getting touchy-feely with me, I’d resisted the urge to ask him about it, afraid of what his answer might be either way and worried I would lose him as a friend—for good this time—if one of us said the wrong thing. But this time it was too much. It was hard not to feel like he was using me as a plaything in some bizarre game he’d concocted.

“Stan, there’s something I have to ask you,” I said after an awkward silence. “And please, _please_ , be honest with me.” I paused, choosing my words. “Do you like me… in _that_ way?”

“No,” he whispered, looking incredibly sad and almost ashamed. And that’s when he told me how confused he was. Ever since Wendy dumped him, he had felt really, really lonely, and was sure he would never find anyone like her again. But then he realized he already had someone as good as her. Here I was, he said: his best friend who he loved spending time with more than anyone else and who—bonus!—also happened to be sort of in love with him. The way he saw it, I was the best option for him in the whole world. He was sure he’d never find another person whose company he enjoyed as much as mine or who could make him as laugh as much as I could.

“What does this mean?” I asked, my heart skipping a beat, my mind in a fog.

“It means… no matter how hard I try, I’m not attracted to guys. At all. I mean, I really like girls, and it’s not like I want to be gay, exactly, but I know I’m not going to find another girl as great as Wendy—or as great as you.”

On that last part, he flashed me a tipsy grin, and I blushed. If this conversation wasn’t so surreal, I might have marched over and kissed him, certain that he wouldn’t fight it and that I would enjoy it very, very much. But I didn’t do that. Maybe it was the bizarre nature of that bathroom encounter or the fact that I knew it would be a mistake, but I did not feel compelled to put a move on Stan when he was in that vulnerable of a position. Instead, I walked over and hugged him. I told him he’s a great guy and that he’s going to make some girl very happy someday.

Luckily, Stan seemed to slip out of his funk pretty quickly in the following days, which I think can be partially attributed to Kenny. Once he found out my best friend and I were back to our old ways, Kenny zeroed in on Stan, using him as leverage to start hanging out with me again. It started out simply enough: he invited Stan to go catch a movie with him and casually suggested that Stan see if I wanted to tag along. At first I objected, but then Stan rolled his eyes in that cute, exaggerated way, and I caved. What neither of us expected was for Kenny to bring Butters, which was weird at first but then quickly wasn’t once we were all cutting up in the concessions line. Soon enough it became a regular occurrence—the four of us seeing movies together—and after a while we became an inseparable quartet. I think this was Kenny’s plan all along; he knew I couldn’t stay mad at him forever and that it was only a matter of time before he won me back over. Crafty little fucker.

And it was nice. It’s strange to think that only weeks before, I was worried that I had alienated all my friends except Cartman. Honestly, it was a good thing Kenny showed back up in my life because not too long after _Yom Kippur_ , Token abandoned Freethinkers Club in favor of spending more time with his girlfriend (gross), which left all responsibilities to Cartman, who gladly assumed the group’s presidency. Of course, all those new responsibilities meant his social life became pretty much nonexistent.

So there I was, from nearly friendless to one-fourth of a chummy quartet in just a few weeks. And of course, it was Kenny the interloping doofus, Kenny the uniter of forces and destroyer of secrets, Kenny the good friend, who made it happen. A part of me still occasionally feels a flush of annoyance when I think about how Kenny betrayed me, but it’s hard to be too mad in retrospect because I know that he did it for a good reason. He did it out of love. He was the first person to see me for what I was, to accept me for who I was, and I’m honestly not sure that I’d be where I am today without his influence.

Just as he helped me to come out, Kenny helped Stan to come out of his shell. Our quartet’s outings became less frequent as I began to focus more on marching band and Butters became more involved with Model UN (ack!), leaving Stan and Kenny to become one another’s wingmen as they pursued their respective romantic interests. Because of their different personalities, Kenny took the wingman duties a bit more seriously than Stan, who was mostly along for the ride. Sure enough, it did not take long for Kenny to use his charms to convince Bebe to go on a date with Stan.

After getting Stan paired off, Kenny once again focused his matchmaking efforts on Butters, who this time he had an eye on for himself. After I rejected him, the best thing that could have happened to poor Butters was someone showing an interest in him, and that’s exactly what Kenny did from day one. He swooped in like a gallant white knight with not-so-innocent intentions, saving Butters from the mires of depression and loneliness. First, Kenny was merely the requisite friend, listening as the other talked, soaking it all in, and saying the right things when they were called for. But then his affections evolved, as friendly smiles became sweeter and the feet between them as they walked gradually shrank to inches. Butters told me all this later, gushing at the thought that Kenny might like him. This time it was my turn to play interloper, going to Kenny in private and inquiring point-blank.

“Are you serious about this, or are you just fucking with his head?” I asked.

“Well, it looks like _somebody_ has a soft spot for Butters after all,” he replied, cackling.

I rolled my eyes, annoyed at the insinuation. “I just don’t think I can deal with him falling apart on me again. Usually he goes to you with shit like this now, but obviously he needs a third party here, so I’m just trying to get the facts straight, in case of emergency. Just tell me now if you’re fucking with him or leading him on or anything like that.”

And then Kenny’s eyes got bigger, and he smiled. I knew that look. I knew it because I’d had it before when I thought about Stan. “No worries, Kyle. This is real, I promise you.” And just like that, Kenny McCormick, the world’s best bad influence, declared his love for the weirdest boy in seventh grade.

Seeing the two of them together was almost too adorable to handle at first: the way they would stealthily hold hands on the way home from school when they were sure no one could see, the sweet messages they exchanged at all hours of the day and night, the dopey kisses whenever they could steal away to someplace private, Kenny’s wandering hands exploring every inch of Butters through his clothes when they were alone together after school. (Butters is seriously the king of TMI.) Sometimes things just don’t work out, though.

Butters always struck me as the nice romantic type, but I assumed Kenny would be some kind of hedonistic sex machine. That wasn’t the case at first, but after a few weeks, it became clear that Kenny was very interested in getting in Butters’ pants, but his boyfriend just wasn’t ready for that yet. It wasn’t just the pressure to have sex that eventually caused Butters to end it. As the gloss of new love waned, so too did topics of conversation, and I suppose it was inevitable that the whole thing fizzled. I was as surprised as Kenny to find that Butters was the one who ended it, though. The kid has more balls than I thought.

Stan became even more quickly bored by Bebe, realizing with a heavy heart that the blonde cheerleader was no match for Wendy in the brains department. And so, after an embarrassingly brief relationship apiece, my two best friends found themselves single, once again playing one another’s wingman. In the month since their respective breakups, they’ve both been batting zero. I haven’t been heartless enough to tell anyone else about Stan’s recent sexual identity crisis, but I figure it’s only a matter of time before Kenny tries to put the moves on him. I mean, wouldn’t you? He’s single, funny, and really cute. Who knows? Maybe Stan will get to do some man-on-man experimenting, after all—even if it is with Kenny. It’s a gross thought, but also kind of a hot one. *ahem* Let’s change the subject, shall we?

I’ve been talking so much about Kenny and Butters and Stan and everything else that I almost forgot to tell you what _I’ve_ been up to these last three months. Let’s start with my faith. After weeks of soliciting Cartman’s advice—whenever I could pin him down at school—and a very much needed pep talk over IM, I finally decided to have a real conversation with my parents about what I believe. Ever since that night when my dad casually brought it up over dinner, there has been little discussion of my “academic fascination” with atheism. With decreasing frequency during the subsequent weeks, my mom asked a few times if I was “still going to that little club”. Other than that, they had been silent on the matter, which was enough to make me insane. I couldn’t tell if they didn’t want to talk about it or if they were genuinely indifferent or if they trusted that I was telling the truth about feeling completely confident in my Jewish identity. Either way, I couldn’t stay silent about it forever, or I was sure my anxious feelings of indecision would eat me alive.

So one night at dinner seven weeks ago, I told them, point-blank, that I had been questioning my belief in God. Those words were enough to elicit a rare look of shock from Ike—whose default expression was a bored/annoyed hybrid—complete with wide eyes and gaping mouth. My father kept his poker face, cool as a cucumber, but my mother’s reaction eclipsed the entire room, the entire neighborhood.

“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice rising half an octave in panic.

“I mean… I don’t know what I mean,” I replied, suddenly doubting my ability to have this conversation and desperately wishing I had never opened my mouth.

“So, what? You’re an atheist, _bubby_? Is that what you’re trying to tell us?” The panicked frustration had quickly given way to panicked concern.

“No, Mom. It’s not that. It’s just… I have questions, that’s all.” At that, she nodded slowly, unsure of the things I was saying but urging me on in silence. My father did not budge, except for his eyes, which met mine during the quiet. They were immensely curious but also receptive and seemingly non-judgmental. There is no way any of them could have known how much I appreciated that moment of stillness, which spurred me to continue formulating my thoughts, first in my head and then aloud, somewhat clumsily. I took a breath and said that I still considered myself a Jew and that nothing’s going to change that. I told them I’m not positive that God exists—who _can_ be?—but that I’m still going to be the best Jew that I can be. I told them it shouldn’t matter whether I believe in God because as long as I’m true to my identity and my heritage, then that’s what’s important, right?

I could tell they had questions when I stopped talking. They had a million questions, but I had more. I wanted to tell them the truth but also what they needed to hear, for their sake and for mine. Maybe my beliefs will change again—I’m only thirteen, after all—but for now, this is my truth: My name is Kyle Broflovski, and I am agnostic. It’s a word Cartman taught me; it basically means that I don’t know whether or not there’s a god and that I don’t think anyone can know. I like that, but I don’t think I’m ready to give myself a new label when it comes to my parents—not yet, at least. I’m sure I’ll come clean to them one day, but I doubt it will be anytime soon.

Speaking of potentially awkward family discussions, I suppose I should tell you that after weeks of agonizing over it and being constantly reassured by my friends that they would have my back no matter what happened, I _finally_ came out to my family. It was exactly six weeks ago today. I did it after dinner, while we were all in the kitchen—my mom preparing a pot of tea, my dad washing dishes, Ike loitering on his phone, and me with a lump in my throat the size of Alaska. After days of thinking about it nonstop, psyching myself up and telling myself that things would be okay no matter what, rehearing the words I would say as if they were a stump speech, the moment finally arrived, and I was speechless. I couldn’t let myself back out, though. I’d come too far not to cross the finish line. Propelled by a rush of adrenaline and suddenly forgetting my oh so carefully rehearsed words, I did it. It was the most terrifying and exhilarating and nerve-racking and insane thing I’ve ever done, and in just a few seconds, it was over.

“There’s something I have to tell you all,” I announced after clearing my throat too loudly, no doubt confusing them more than anything. Unfazed by my own awkwardness, I continued, boldly as I could muster. “There’s no easy way to say this, so… I guess I’ll just say it.” And so I did.

The first face I found in the room was my father’s. Ever cryptic, his expression left everything to the imagination. As usual, his immediate response was to study me in silence. It’s hard to say in retrospect because I was still in shock from hearing the words leave my mouth, but I think I caught the faintest glimpse of a smile on his lips. When I panned to Ike, my glance didn’t hover long; his face was red, possibly from embarrassment, or from having no idea how to respond. When I looked to my mother, I saw tears forming and immediately feared the worst.

“Oh, Kyle,” she whispered before floating across the room to embrace me. “I love you so much. We all do.” The next thing she said—after drawing in my dad and Ike for a family hug—was that she and my father love me for who I am, regardless of who I love. She said that they support me and could not be any prouder of me, and my father nodded in solemn agreement. My brother, never a fan of sharing feelings or engaging in unnecessary conversations with our parents, excused himself soon after, but not before walking over and giving me a sincere side hug and half-hearted smile, truthfully the best possible reaction I could have expected from him.

Later around the kitchen table, as my parents and I drank the tea my mother prepared, not much was said at first, but it didn’t have to be. I was relieved to the point of being giddy and knew my facial expressions conveyed this. We all enjoyed the comfortable silence before my mom could not help it any longer. She just had to know how long I’ve known that I’m gay (only a couple of months) and whether I’m sure I don’t like girls, too (I’m pretty positive, Mom). She asked whether I still plan to get married and give her grandkids because that’s still possible when you’re gay, you know, Kyle. (Mom, I’m only thirteen!) After a while, the conversation switched gears, and it was my turn to ask the questions. I wanted to know whether they were really cool with me being gay or just saying it to be supportive. (Of course they are “cool” with it, _bubby_ ; they are my parents, and they love me.) I asked whether they ever had any suspicions about me liking boys instead of girls. At that, my mother smiled and looked to my father knowingly. She told me they had been wondering but hadn’t jumped to any conclusions, though they had noticed, on several recent occasions, me staring at Ethan Saperstein at temple. Oy.

After remaining attentive but largely quiet, my father seized a lapse in conversation to ask a question that had obviously been on his mind the entire night. Clearly choosing his words purposefully, he asked if there was anyone _special_ in my life. I blushed at that, mildly embarrassed but also surprised that the topic of me having a boyfriend hadn’t come up yet. I told the truth: not at the moment, but I was keeping my options open, hehe. Little did I know that in less than forty-eight hours, things would change entirely.

And now is the part of the story when I can _finally_ tell you about Antonio! What began as another boring day at school became something much more when, twenty-one seconds before Mr. Liverwort shut the door to begin class, a new face sat down in the usually vacant desk to my right.

“This is history class, right?” he asked, breathing heavily and face slightly flushed. I nodded. As if he could hear the questions forming in my head, he continued, “I’ve been running around trying to find the room. I didn’t want to be late on my first day. I’m Antonio. My family just moved here from Dallas.” And that is what I learned about Antonio before our history teacher shushed us and began to lecture.

Our conversation continued at the lunch table. More than anything, I was intrigued by the prospect of someone being in this class who wasn’t completely lame and, if that was the case, wanted to snatch him up before anyone else did. I sat a few seats away from Kevin Stoley and the goths and all the rest, curious to see if Antonio would follow my lead. He did.

I’d never thought much about what Dallas might be like, but if all I had to base it on was the new kid here, I would have assumed it was some kind of exotic paradise. Everything about him was different, and I was hooked. He was the first person I’d met whose family originally hailed from El Salvador, and I immediately wanted to learn everything I could about the place. Nothing he told me about himself rang of South Park, and I loved that. When I asked him what he liked to do for fun, he said sometimes skateboarding but mostly tennis. (Tennis!) He’d also practiced jiu-jitsu since the age of six and enjoyed building things—birdhouses, small engines, sets for plays at the community theater back in Texas. He asked me if we had a debate club here and when I told him we did, he seemed thrilled. (Note to self: Learn how to debate. Join debate club. Find out what, exactly, jiu-jitsu is.) Soon enough, the lunch period dwindled away, but not before I ascertained that the house his family had just moved into was only a couple of blocks from mine. I told him I could show him the most efficient route to walk home from school today, and he said that sounded like a plan.

As we walked together, the chilly late November air filled the space between us, and Antonio asked about my friends and what I like to do for fun. Without going into too many specifics, I told him about Kenny and Stan and Cartman and Butters. I told him my life is pretty uneventful compared to his and that I hope he doesn’t find me boring. He laughed at that, and his lingering smile gave me butterflies. He asked if I had a girlfriend, and I told him no, a lump forming in my throat and my voice cracking a tad. Fucking puberty. I asked if he had a girlfriend, trying to match his relaxed tone. He said no, he didn’t, and it sounded like he wanted to say more but stopped himself. He looked at me and slyly smiled, and we finished our leisurely walk in silence.

As we approached my house, I noticed a very annoyed-looking Stan and Kenny at the front door and realized I had completely forgotten that the three of us were supposed to hang out this afternoon.

“Those your friends?” Antonio asked, returning Kenny’s confused wave.

“Uh, yeah. Wanna meet them?” He did. As we walked up to my front door, Kenny shot me a suggestive glance, clearly wanting to know where I had magicked this mystery man from. I gave Kenny a look that begged him not to do or say anything that would scare him off.

“This is Antonio,” I said to the two curious onlookers. “He’s, uh, new.”

“Oh, hey, new kid,” Stan said nonchalantly as we all four shuffled into my house. We gathered around the Xbox, and the afternoon passed quickly. Interspersed into the gameplay were questions from Antonio about Stan and Kenny, the latter of whom took a great interest in not only answering the questions but also asking some of his own. Luckily, he kept it civil and did not probe too much, perhaps only because he knew I’d intervene if he went overboard.

By 5:00, Antonio had gone home, followed not long after by Stan. Kenny and I retreated to my bedroom, knowing my parents would be home soon enough and that they wouldn’t mind if he stayed for dinner since Ike was at Filmore’s for the evening.

“He’s totally gay,” Kenny said, completely confident in his assessment.

“God. No, he’s not. And how can you know that so quickly?”

“I just know these things, Kyle. I was right you and Butters, wasn’t I? Trust me on this one. I’m the gay whisperer.” I rolled my eyes at that, and we dropped the conversation when my parents got home.

It wasn’t until that Saturday, when the two of us were killing time fucking around at Stark’s Pond, that Kenny returned to the subject of the new boy in town. Out of the blue, he asked me if I liked Antonio.

“Of course I like him,” I said. “He’s cool.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Kenny replied dramatically. “I mean, do you _like him_ like him? Like, do you have a crush on him?”

“What? No!” I blushed. “I mean, I don’t know. I’ve only known him for a few days.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Kenny said, rolling his eyes. “Read this.” He handed his phone to me. It was open to a text conversation between him and Antonio.

“You two got chummy pretty quickly,” I said, perhaps a bit too defensively.

“Just read it,” he replied, crossing his arms smugly.

_Kenny: Are you single?_

_Antonio: Yeah, why?_

_Kenny: Just curious if you were dating anyone before you moved._

_Antonio: Yeah. But, umm, we broke up. Didn’t want to do long distance._

_Kenny: That sucks. Was he hot?_

_Antonio: …what?_

_Kenny: Was. He. Hot._

_Antonio: Shit. How did you know?_

I continued reading the long thread. I discovered that Kenny’s suspicions were somewhat correct, though Antonio prefers to think of himself as bisexual. As they went on, Kenny revealed that he’s bi, too, and that he actually has a couple of friends who are gay and that Antonio has met one of them. Antonio asked if it was Stan, which was met with an appropriate _lol, no_. He then asked if it was Kyle, and though Kenny knows how I feel about him outing me to other people, I am very glad that he did it in this case because the next thing I read nearly toppled me over like a sucker punch at the speed of light.

_Antonio: OMFG, really?! You’re not joking, right? Please say you’re not. He is really cute, and, umm… yeah. :3_

That was thirty-four days ago, the day I got Antonio’s number from Kenny and proposed to him that the two of us see a film together, alone. Thirty-two days ago, I held his hand for the first time in a dark, sparsely populated movie theater, before (to my surprise) working up the nerve to kiss him against a backdrop of car chases and CGI explosions. It’s hard not to think of Michael Bay as the soundtrack of my love life now. Twenty-nine days ago, I asked him if he wanted to maybe, umm, be my boyfriend because I really, uh, like being around him and—but he stopped me with a _yes, please_ , before grabbing my hand and nuzzling his head into my shoulder. It was twenty-two days ago that I first saw him shirtless as he demonstrated proper jiu-jitsu form to me in his bedroom, behind closed doors. Sixteen days ago, I discovered a folded piece of paper sticking out of my science textbook, the names _Mr. Kyle Martinez_ and _Mr. Antonio Broflovski_ centered vertically on the page, a tiny scribbled heart connecting the space between them. Eleven days ago, we kissed for the first time around our friends, a quick peck on the lips in a booth at P.F. Chang’s, Kenny whooping in approval and Stan rolling his eyes in embarrassment. It was eight days ago that I introduced him to my parents as my, uh, friend Antonio, and seven days ago that my mother asked me if he was really just a friend. Four days ago, it was dinner with my family again, this time under no false pretenses; even Ike seemed to enjoy himself.

It was later that night, when I walked him home (as always, we took the long way) that I felt the acid bubbling up from my stomach to my throat, my gut twisted up in knots as I prepared to say the thing that had been on mind for the last day and a half. I stopped walking, and he cocked his head at me in bemusement. That’s when I took a deep breath and took both his hands in mine and looked him in the eyes and told him I loved him. It was four days ago that he told me, without skipping a beat, that he loved me, too, before pulling me into him there in the quiet street and making me happier than I’ve ever felt in my life.

It’s one day until my one-month anniversary with the most amazing guy in South Park, the most amazing guy in all the world. I am happy, of course—over the moon—but more than anything, I am surprised. It’s hard to believe that any of this has happened to me, and sometimes I am compelled to pull my hair and splash some water on my face to remind myself I’m not dreaming. My name is Kyle Broflovski, and I am thirteen years old. I am an agnostic Jew, and I am in awe. My name is Kyle Broflovski, and I am in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who read “Days of Awe”, especially those who have provided feedback along the way. Your continued support of this story and my writing means the world to me. For those of you who have not reviewed yet, now would be a wonderful time to do that, as I would love to know your thoughts on the story!
> 
> Until we meet again,  
> TEPR


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